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ROME IN THE THIRD CENTURY 








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AURELIAN; 

OB, 

in i\t C|irit C^ntnrg 

r 

IN LETTERS OF LUCIUS M. PISO, FROM ROME, TO FAUSTA, 
THE DAUGHTER OF GRACCHUS, AT PALMYRA. 

BY 

WILLI-AM WAKE, 

I) 

AUTHOR or “ZBNOBIi.,” “JTTLIAN,” S*0< 

FIFTH EDITION. . 

two VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE. 

V^UL. I. 



NEW YORK 

THOMAS K. KNOX & CO. 

SUCCESSORS TO JAMES MILLER 

813 Broadway 


■PZs 


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Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1838, 
By Charles S. Francis, 
in the Clerk’s office of the Southern District of New York. 


Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1866, 
By Mary Ware, 

la tlie Clerk’s office of the Son.them District of New York 


486555 
N. 4 '35 


TROWS 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, 
NEW YORK. 



NOTICE. 


This book — a sequel to Zenobia— published nearly 
ten years ago under the name of ‘ Probus, ’ was soon re¬ 
published, in several places abroad, under that of 
‘ Aurelian.’ So far from complaining of the innova¬ 
tion, I could not but regard it as a piece of good fortune, 
as I had myself long thought the present a more appro¬ 
priate title than the one originally chosen. Add to this, 
that the publisher of the work, on lately proposing a new 
edition, urgently advised the adoption of the foreign 
name, and I have thought myself sufficiently warranted 
in an alteration which circumstances seemed almost to 
require, or, at least, to excuse. 


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A U R E L I A N 


The record which follows, is by the hand of me, 
Nicomachus, once the happy servant of the great Queen 
of Palmyra, than whom the world never saw a queen 
more illustrious, or a woman adorned with brighter vir¬ 
tues. But my design is not to write her eulogy, or to re¬ 
cite the wonderful story of her life. That task requires 
a stronger and a more impartial hand than mine. The 
life of Zenobia by Nicomachus, would be the portrait of 
a mother and a divinity, drawn by the pen of a child 
and a worshipper. 

My object is a humbler, but perhaps also a more use¬ 
ful one. It is to collect and arrange, in their proper or¬ 
der, such of the letters of the most noble Lucius Man¬ 
lius Piso, as shall throw most light upon his character 
and times, supplying all defects of incident, and filling 
up all chasms that may occur, out of the knowledge 
which more exactly than^any one else, I have been able 



6 


A U R E L l A N . 


to gathor concerning all that relates to the distinguished 
family of the Pisos, after its connection with the mor#" 
distinguished one still, of the Queen of Palmyra. 

It is in this manner that I propose to amuse the few 
remaining days of a green old age, not without hope 
both to amuse and benefit others also. This is a labor, 
as those will discover who read, not unsuitable to one 
who stands trembling on the verge of life, and whom_ a 
single rude blast may in a moment consign to the em¬ 
braces of the universal mother. I will not deny that 
my chief satisfaction springs from the fact, that in col¬ 
lecting these letters, and binding them together by a 
connecting narrative, I am engaged in the honorable 
task of tracing out some of the steps by which the new 
religion has risen to its present height of power. For 
whether true or false, neither friend nor foe, neither 
philosopher nor fool, can refuse to admit the regenera¬ 
ting and genial influences of its so wide reception upon 
the Roman character and manners. If not the gift of 
the gods, it is every way worthy a divine origin ; and 
I cannot but feel myself to be worthily occupied in record¬ 
ing the deeds, the virtues, and the sufferings, of those 
who put their faith in it, and, in times of danger and 
oppression, stood forth to defend it. Age is slow of 
belief. The thoughts then cling with a violent perti¬ 
nacity to the fictions of its youth, once held to be the 
most sacred realities. But for this I should, I believe, 
myself long ago have been a Christian. I daily pray to 
the Supreme Power that my stubborn nature may yet 
so far yield, that I may be able, with a free and full 
assent, to call myself a follower of Christ. A Greek by 
birth, a Palmyrene by choice and adoption, a Roman 


A U R E L I A N . 


9 


by necessity — and these are all honorable names — I 
would yet rather be a Christian than either. Strange 
that, with so strong desires after a greater good, I should 
remain fixed where I have ever been ! Stranger still, 
seeing I have moved so long in the same sphere with 
the excellent Piso, the divine Julia — that emanation oi 
God — and the god-like Probus ! But there is no 
riddle so hard for man to read as himself. I sometimes 
feel most inclined toward the dark fatalism of the stoics, 
since it places all things beyond the region of conjec¬ 
ture or doubt. 

Yet if I may not be a Christian myself—I do not, 
however, cease both to hope and pray — I am happy in 
this, that I am permitted by the Divine Providence to 
behold, in these the last days of life, the quiet suprem¬ 
acy of a faith which has already added so much to the 
common happiness, and promises so much more. Hav¬ 
ing stood in the midst, and looked upon the horrors of 
two persecutions of the Christians — the first by Aure- 
lian and the last by Diocletian — which last seemed at 
one moment as if it would acconr.plish its work, and blot 
out the very name of Christian — I have no language 
in which to express the satisfaction with which I sit 
down beneath the peaceful shadows of a Christian 
throne, and behold the general security and exulting 
freedom enjoyed by the many millions throughout the 
vast empire of the great Constantine. Now, every¬ 
where around, the Christians are seen, undeterred by 
any apprehension of violence, with busy hands reerect¬ 
ing the demolished temples of their pure and spiritual 
faith ; yet not unmindful, in the mean time, of the labor 
yet to be done, to draw away the rem.aining multitudes 


10 


A U R E L I A N . 


of idolaters from the superstitions which, while they in^ 
fatuate, degrade and brutalize them. With the zeal ot 
the early apostles of this religion, they are applying 
themselves, with untiring diligence, to soften and sub¬ 
due the stony heart of hoary Paganism, receiving but 
too often, as their only return, curses and threats — 
now happily vain — and retiring from the assault, 
leading in glad triumph captive multitudes. Often, as 
I sit at my window, overlooking, from the southern 
slope of the Quirinal, the magnificent Temple of tht 
Sun, the proudest monument of Aurelian’s reign, do 1 
pause to observe the labors of the artificers who, just as 
it were beneath the shadow of its columns, are placing 
the last stones upon the dome of a Christian church. 
Into that church the worshippers shall enter unmolested; 
mingling peacefully, as they go and return, with the 
crowds that throng the more gorgeous temple of the 
idolaters. Side by side, undisturbed and free, do the 
Pagans and Christians, Greeks, Jews, and Egyptians, 
now observe the rites, and offer the worship, of their va¬ 
rying faiths. This happiness we owe to the wise and 
merciful laws of the great Constantine. So was it, 
long since, in Palmyra, under the benevolent rule of 
Zenobia. May the time never come, when Christians 
shall do otherwise than now ; when, remembering the 
wrongs they have received, they shall retaliate torture 
and death upon the blind adherents of the ancient su¬ 
perstition ! 

These letters of Piso to Fausta the daughter of Grac' 
chus, now follow. 


AURELIAN. 


11 


LETTER I. 

FROM PISO TO FAUSTA. 

I AM not surprised, Fausta, that you complain of my 
silence. It were strange indeed if you did not. Bui 
as for most of our misdeeds we have excuses ready at 
hand, so have I for this. First of all, I was not igno¬ 
rant, that, however I might fail you, from your other 
greater friend you would experience no such neglect ; 
but on the contrary would be supplied with sufficient 
fulness and regularity, with all that could be worth 
knowing, concerning either our public or private affairs. 
For her sake, too, I was not unwilling, that at first the 
burden of this correspondence, if I may so term it, 
should rest where it has, since it has afforded, I am per¬ 
suaded, a pleasure, and provided an occupation that 
could have been found nowhere else. Just as a fiood ot 
tears brings relief to a bosom laboring under a heavy 
sorrow, so has this pouring out of herself to you in fre¬ 
quent letters, served to withdraw the mind of the Queen 
from recollections, which, dwelt upon as they were at 
first, would soon have ended that life in which all ours 
seem bound up. 

Then again, if you accept the validity of this excuse, 
I have another, which, as a woman, you will at once 
allow the force of. You will not deem it a better one 
than the other, but doubtless as good. It is this : that 
for a long time I have been engaged in taking possession 


12 


AD R E LI AN . 


of my new dwelling upon the Ccelian, not far from that 
of Portia. Of this you may have heard, in the letters 
which have reached you ; but that will not prevent me 
from describing to you, with more exactness than any 
other can have done it, the home of your old and fast 
friend, Lucius Manlius Piso ; for I think it adds greatly 
to the pleasure with which we think of an absent friend, 
to be able to see, as in a picture, the form and material 
and position of the house he inhabits, and even the very 
aspect and furniture of the room in whichiie is accus¬ 
tomed to pass the most of his time. This to me is a 
satisfaction greater than you can well conceive, when, in 
my ruminating hours, which are many, I return to Pal¬ 
myra, and place myself in the circle with Gracchus, Cal- 
purnius, and yourself. Your palace having now been 
restored to its former condition, I know where to find 
you at the morning, noon, and evening hour ; the only 
change you have made in the former arrangements be¬ 
ing this : that whereas when I was your guest, your pri¬ 
vate apartments occupied the eastern wing of the palace, 
they are now in the western, once mine, which I used 
then to maintain were the most agreeable and noble of 
all. The prospects which its windows afford of the 
temple, and the distant palace of the queen, and of 
the evening glories of the setting sun, are more than 
enough to establish its claims to an undoubted superi¬ 
ority ; and if to these be added the circumstance, 
that for so long a time the Eoman Piso was their occu¬ 
pant, the case is made out beyond all peradventure. 

But I am describing your palace rather than my own, 
You must remember my paternal seat on the southern 
declivity of the hill, overlooking the course of the Ti- 


A U R E L I A N . 


13 


ber as it winds away to the sea. Mine is not far from, 
t, but on the northern side of the hill, and thereby 
possessing a situation more favorable to comfort, during 
the heats of summer — I loving the city, as you well 
know, better if anything during the summer than the 
winter months. Standing upon almost the highest point 
of the hill, it commands a wide and beautiful prospect, 
especially toward the north and east, the eye shooting 
over the whole expanse of city and suburbs, and then 
resting upon the purple outline of the distant mountains. 
Directly before me are the magnificent structures which 
crown the Esquiline, conspicuous among which, and in¬ 
deed eminent over all, are the Baths of Titus. Then, 
as you will conjecture, the eye takes in the Palatine and 
Capitol hills, catching, just beyond the last, the swelling 
dome of the Pantheon, which seems rather to rise out 
of, and crown, the Flavian Amphitheatre, than its own 
massy walls. Then, far in the horizon, we just discern 
the distant summits of the Appenines, broken by So- 
racte and the nearer hills. 

The principal apartments are on the northern side of 
the palace, opening upon a portico of Corinthian col¬ 
umns, running its entire length and which would not 
disgrace Palmyra itself. At the eastern extremity, are 
the rooms common to the family ; in the centre, a spa¬ 
cious hall, in the adorning of which, by every form of 
art, I have exhausted my knowledge and taste in such 
things ; and at the western extremity, my library, where 
at this moment I sit, and where I have gathered around 
me all in letters and art that I most esteem. This room 
I have decorated for myself and Julia — not for others 
2 


14 


A U R E L I A N , 


Whatever has most endeared itself to our imaginations 
our minds, or our hearts, has here its home. The books 
that have most instructed or amused ; the statuary that 
most raises and delights us ; the pictures on which we 
most love to dwell; the antiquities that possess most cu¬ 
riosity or value, are here arranged, and in an order 
that would satisfy, I believe, even your fastidious taste. 

I will not weary you with any more minute account 
of my new dwelling, leaving that duty to the readier 
pen of Julia. Yet I cannot relieve you till I have 
spoken of two of the statues which occupy the most 
conspicuous niche in the library. You will expect me 
to name Socrates and Plato, or Numa and Seneca — 
these are all there, but it is not of either of them that I 
would speak. They are the venerable founders of the 
Jewish and Christian religions, Moses and Christ. 
These statues, of the purest marble, stand side by side, 
at one extremity of the apartment ; and immediately 
before them, and within the wondrous sphere of their 
influences stands the table at which I write, and where 
I pursue my inquiries in philosophy and religion. You 
smile at my enthusiasm, Fausta, and wonder when I 
shall return to the calm sobriety of my ancient faith. In 
this wonder there are a thousand errors — but of these 
hereafter. I was to tell you of these sculptures. Of 
the statue of Moses, I possess no historical account, and 
know not what its claim may be to truth. I can only 
say, it is a figure truly grand, and almost terrific. It is 
of a size larger than life, and expresses no sentiment so 
perfectly as authority — the authority of a rigorous and 
austere ruler — both in the attitude of the body and the 
features of the countenance. The head is slightly raised 


A U R E L I A N . 


16 


and drawn back, as if listening, awe-struck, to a com¬ 
munication from the God who commissioned him, while 
his left hand supports a volume, and his right grasps a 
stylus, with which, when the voice has ceased, to record 
the communicated truth. Place in his hands the thun¬ 
derbolt, and at his feet the eagle, and the same form 
w'ould serve for Jupiter the Thunderer, except only that 
to the countenance of the Jewish prophet there has been 
imparted a rapt and inspired look, wholly beyond any 
that even Phidias could have fixed upon the face of Jove. 
He who wrought this head must have believed in the 
sublimities of the religion whose chief minister he has 
made so to speak them forth, in the countenance and 
in the form ; and yet who has ever heard of a Jew 
sculptor ? 

The statue of Christ is of a very different character ; 
as different as the Christian faith is from that of the 
Jewish, notwithstanding they are still by many con¬ 
founded. I cannot pretend to describe to you the holy 
beauty, that as it were constitutes this perfect work of 
art. If you ask what authority tradition has invested il 
with, I can only say that I do not know. All I can af¬ 
firm with certainty, is this, that it once stood in the pal¬ 
ace of Alexander Severus, in company with the imag-es 
of other deified men and gods, whom he chiefly rever¬ 
enced. When that excellent prince had fallen under 
the blows of assassins, his successor and murderer, Max- 
imin, having little knowledge or taste for what was 
found in the palace of Alexander, thoie treasures were 
sold, and the statue of Christ came into the hands of a 
distinguished and wealthy Christian of that dav, who, 
perishing in the ptjrsecution of Decius, his descendants 


16 


A U R E L I A N . 


became impoverished, and were compelled to part with 
even this sacred relic of their former greatness. From 
them I purchased it ; and often are they to be seen, 
whenever for such an object they can steal away from 
necessary cares, standing before it and renewing, as it 
would seem, their vows of obedience, in the presence of 
the founder of their faith. The room is free to their 
approach, whenever they are thus impelled. 

The expression of this statue, I have said, is wholly 
different from that of the Hebrew. His is one of au¬ 
thority and of sternness ; this of gentleness and love. 
Christ is represented, like the Moses, in a sitting pos- 
cure, with a countenance, not like his raised to Heaven, 
but bent with looks somewhat sad and yet full of benev¬ 
olence, as if upon persons standing before him. Fra¬ 
ternity, I think, is the idea you associate with it most 
readily. I should never suppose him to be a judge or 
censor, or arbitrary master, but rather an elder brother; 
elder in the sense of wiser, holier, purer ; whose look is 
not one of reproach that others are not as himself, but 
of pity and desire ; and whose hand would rather be 
stretched forth to lift up the fallen than to smite the 
offender. To complete this expression, and inspire the 
beholder with perfect confidence, the left hand rests up¬ 
on a little child, who stands with familiar reverence at 
his knee, and looking up into his face seems to say, ‘ No 
evil can come to me here.’ 

Opposite this, and at the other extremity of the apart¬ 
ment, hangs a picture of Christ, representing him in very 
exact accordance with the traditional accounts of his fea¬ 
tures and form, a description of which exists, and is held 
by most authentic, in a letter of Publius Lentulus, a Ro 


A U R E L I A N . 


17 


man of the same period. Between this and the statuo 
there is a close resemblance, or as close as we usually 
see between two heads of Csesar, or of Cicero. Marble, 
ho wever, is the only material that suits the character 
and office of Jesus of Nazareth. Color, and its minute 
effects, seem in some sort to degrade the subject. I re¬ 
tain the picture because of its supposed truth. 

Portia, as you will believe, is full of wonder and sor¬ 
row at these things. Soon after my library had received 
its last additions, my mother came to see what she han 
already heard of so much. As she entered the apart¬ 
ment, I was sitting in my accustomed seat, with Julia 
at my side, and both of us gazing in admiration at the 
figures I have just described. We were both too much 
engrossed to notice the entrance of Portia, our first warn¬ 
ing of her presence being her hand laid upon my head. 
We rose and placed her between us. 

‘ My son,’ said she, looking intently as she spoke up¬ 
on the statues beffire us, ‘ what strange looking figures 
are these ? That upon my left might serve for Jupiter, 
but for the roll and the stylus. And why place you be¬ 
ings of character so opposite, as these appear to have 
been, side by side? This other upon my right — ah, 
how beautiful it is ! What mildness in those eyes, and 
what a divine repose over the form, which no event, not 
the downfall of a kingdom nor its loss, would seem capa¬ 
ble to disturb. Is it the peace-loving Numa?’ 

‘ Not so,’ said Julia ; ‘ there stands Numa, leaning on 
the sacred shield, from the centre ot which beams the 
countenance of the divine Egeria.’ 

‘Yes, I see it,’ replied Portia ; xnd rising fronr ho^ 
2-)fc 


18 


A TI R E L 1 A N . 


Beat, she stood gazing round the apartment, examining 
Its various appointments. When her eye had sought 
out the several objects, and dwelt upon them a moment, 
she said, in tones somewhat reproachful, as much so as 
it is in her nature to assume: 

‘ Where, Lucius, are the gods of Eome ? Do those 
who have, through so many ages, watched over our 
country, and guarded our house, deserve no honor at 
your hands ? Does not gratitude require at least that 
their images should be here, so that, whether you your¬ 
self worship them or not, their presence may inspire 
others with reverence ? But alas for the times ! Piety 
seems dead; or, with the faith that inspires it, it lives 
but in a few, who will soon disappear, and religion with 
them. Whose forms are these, Lucius ? concerning 
one I can now easily surmise — but the other, this stern 
and terrific man, who is he ? ’ 

‘ That,’ I replied, ‘ is Moses, the founder of Judaism.’ 

‘ Immortal gods! ’ exclaimed Portia, ‘ the statue of a 
Jew in the halls of the Pisos ! Well may it be that 
Kome approaches her decline, when her elder sons turn 
against her.’ 

‘ Nay, my mother, I am not a Jew.’ 

‘ I would thou wert, rather than be what I suppose 
thou art, a Christian. The Jew, Lucius, can boast of 
antiquity, at least, in behalf of his religion. But the 
faith which you would profess and extend, is but of yes¬ 
terday. Would the gods ever leave manhind without 
religion ? Is it only to-day that they reveal the truth ? 
Have they left us for these many ages to grope along in 
error ? Never, Lucius, can I believe it. It is enough 
for me that the religion of Rome is old as Rome, to 


A U R E L I A .N. 


19 


pndevir it to my heart, and commend it to my under* 
Btandiug. It is not for the first time, to-day. that the 
gods have spoken.’ 

‘ But, my dear rriother,’ I rejoined, ‘ if age makes 
truth, there are older religions than this of Rome. Ju¬ 
daism itself is older, by many centuries. But it is not 
because a religion is new oj: old, that I would receive or 
reject it. The only question is, does it satisfy my heart 
and mind, and is it true ? The faith which you en¬ 
grafted upon my infant mind, fails to meet the wants of 
my nature, and upon looking for its foundations, I find 
them not.’ 

‘ Is thy nature different from mine, Lucius ? Surely, 
thou art my own child ! It has satisfied me and my 
-nature. I ask for nothing else, or better.’ 

‘ There are some natures, mother, by the gods so fur¬ 
nished and filled with all good desires and affections, 
that their religion is born with them and is in them. 
It matters little under what outward form and adminis¬ 
tration of truth they dwell ; no system could injure 
them—none would greatly benefit. They are of the 
family of God, by birth, and are never disinherited.’ 

‘Yes, Portia,’ said Julia, ‘natural and divine in¬ 
stincts make you what others can become only through 
the powerful operation of some principle out of, and su¬ 
perior to, nnything they find within. For me, I know 
not what I should have been, without the help which 
Christianity has afforded. I might have been virtuous, 
but I could not have been happy. You surely rejoice, 
when the weak find that in any religion or philosophy 
which gives them strength. Look, Portia, at that serene 
and benignant countenance, and can you believe that 


20 


A U R E L I A N. 


any truth eve. came from its lips, but such as nni^t be 
most comforting and exalting to those who receive it ?’ 

‘ It would seem so indeed, my child,’ replied Portia, 
musingly, ‘ and I would not deprive any Df the comforts 
or strength which any principle may impart. But I 
cannot cease to think it dangerous to the state, when the 
faith of the founders of Rome is abandoned by those 
who fill its highest places. You who abound in leisure 
and learning, may satisfy yourselves with a new phi¬ 
losophy ; but what shall these nice refinements profit 
the common herd ? How shall they see them to be 
true, or comprehend them ? The Romans have ever 
been a religious people ; and although under the empire 
the purity of ancient manners is lost, let it not be said 
that the Pisos were among those who struck the last 
and hardest blows at the still stout root of the tree that 
bore them.’ 

‘ Nothing can be more plain or intelligible,’ I replied, 
‘ than the principles of the Christian religion ; and 
wherever it has been preached with simplicity and pow¬ 
er, even the common people have readily and gratefully 
adopted it. I certainly cannot but desire that it may 
prevail. If any thing is to do it, I believe this is the 
power that is to restore, and in a still nobler form, the 
ancient manners of which you speak. It is from Chris¬ 
tianity that in my heart I believe the youthful blood 
is to come, that being poured into the veins of this dy¬ 
ing state, shall reproduce the very vigor and freshness 
of its early age. Rome, my mother, is now but a life¬ 
less trunk — a dead and loathsome corpse a new and 
warmer'current must be infused, or it will soon crumble 
into dust.’ 


A U R E L I A N. 


2i 

‘ I grieve, Lucius, to see you lost to the good cause ol 
your country, and to the altars of her gods ; for who can 
-ove his country, and deny the gods who made and pre¬ 
serve it ? But then who am I to condemn ? When I 
see the gods to hurl thunderbolts upon those who floul 
them, it will be time enough for us mortals to assume 
the robes of judgment. I will hope that farther thought 
will reclaim you from your truant wanderings.’ 

Do not imagine, Fausta, that conversations like this 
have the least effect to chill the warm affections of Portia 
towards us both. Nature has placed within her bosom 
a central heat, that not only preserves her own warmth, 
but diffuses itself upon all who approach her, and chan¬ 
ges their affections into a likeness of her own. We 
speak of our differing faiths, but love none the less. 
When she had paused a moment after uttering the last 
words, she again turned her eye upon the statue of Christ, 
and, captivated by its wondrous power, she dwelt upon 
it in a manner that showed her sensibilities to be great¬ 
ly moved. At length she suddenly started, saying: 

‘ If truth and beauty were the same thing, one need but 
to look upon this and be a believer. But as in the hu¬ 
man form and face, beauty is often but a lie, covering 
over a worse deformity than any that ever disfigures the 
body, so it may be here. I cannot but admire and love 
the beauty ; it will be wise, I suppose, not to look far¬ 
ther, lest the dream be dissolved.’ 

‘ Be not afraid of that, dearest mother ; I can warran* 
you against disappointment. If in that marble you 
have the form of the outward beauty, here, in this roll 
you will find the inward moral beauty of which it is the, 
shrine.’ 


22 


A IT R E L I A N . 


‘ Nay, nay, Lucius, I look no farther or deeper. . 
have seen too much already.’ 

With these words, she arose, and we accompanied hei 
to the portico, where we walked, and sat, and talked O; 
you, and Calpurnius, and Gracchus. 

Thus you perceive I have told you first of what chiefly 
interests myself: now let me turn to what at this mo¬ 
ment more than everything else fills all heads in Korne 
— and that is Livia. She is the object of universal at- 
tfmtion, the centre of all honor. It is indescribable, the 
sensation her beauty, and now added to that, her mag¬ 
nificence, have made and still make in Rome. Her 
imperial bearing would satisfy even you ; and the splen¬ 
dor of her state exceeds all that has been known before. 
This you may be surprised to hear, knowing what the 
principles of Aurelian have been in such things i how 
strict he has been himself in a more than republican 
simplicity, and how severe upon the extravagances and 
luxuries of others, in the laws he has enacted. You 
must remember his prohibition of the use of cloth of gold 
and of silk, among other things — foolish laws to be sud¬ 
denly promulged among so vain and corrupt a popula¬ 
tion as this of Rome. They have been the ridicule and 
scorn of rich and poor alike ; of the rich, because they 
are so easily violated in private, or evaded by the substi¬ 
tution of one article for another; of the poor, because, 
being slaves in spirit, they take a slave’s pride in the 
trappings and state of their masters • they love net only 
to feel but to see their superiority But since the east¬ 
ern expedition, the reduction of Paimyra, and the intro* 
daction from abroad of the vast flood of foreign luxuries 
which has inundated Rome and Italy itself the princi 


A U R E L I A N . 


23 


pies and the habits of the Emperor have undergone a 
mighty revolution. Now, the richness and costliness ol 
his dress, the splendor of his equipage, the gorgeousnes? 
of his furniture, cannot be made to come up to the height 
of his extravagant desires. The silk which he once 
denied to the former Empress for a dress, now, variously 
embroidered, and of every dye, either hangs in ample 
folds upon the walls, or canopies the royal bed, or lends 
its beauty to the cushioned seats which everywhere, in 
every form of luxurious ease, invite to repose. Gold, 
too, once prohibited, but now wrought into every kind 
of cloth, or solid in shape of dish, or vase, or cup, or 
spread in sheets over the very walls and ceilings of the 
palace, has rendered the traditions of Nero’s house of 
gold no longer fabulous. The customs of the eastern 
monarchs have also elevated or perverted the ambition 
of Aurelian, and one after another are taking place ot 
former usages. He is every day more difficult of ac¬ 
cess, and surrounds himself, his palaces, and apartments, 
by guards and officers of state. In all this, as you will 
readily believe, Livia is his willing companion, or 
rather, I should perhaps say, his prompting and ruling 
genius. As without the world at her feet, it would be 
impossible for her insane pride to be fully satisfied, so in 
all that is now done, the Emperor still lags behind her 
will. But beautifully, it can be denied by none, does 
«he become her greatness, and gives more lustre than 
sne receives, to all around her. Gold is doubly gold iri 
her presence ; and even the diamond sparkles with a 
new brilliancy on her brow or sandal. 

Livia is, of all women I have ever seen or known, 
made for a Roman empress. I used to think so whetr 


24 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


in Palmyra, and I saw her, so often as I did, assuming 
the port and air of imaginary sovereignty. And now 
that I behold her filling the very place for which by 
nature she is most perfectly fitted, I cannot but confess 
that she surpasses all I had imagined, in the genius she 
displays for her great sphere, both as wife of Aurelian, 
and sovereign of Rome. Her intellect shows itself 
stronger than I had believed it to be, and secures for her 
the homage of a class who could not be subdued by her 
magnificence, extraordinary as it is. They are capti¬ 
vated by the brilliancy of her wit, set off by her unequal¬ 
led beauty, and, for a woman, by her rare attainments, 
and hover around her as some superior being. Then 
for the mass of our rich and noble, her ostentatious state 
and imperial presence are all that they can appreciate, 
ah they ask for, and more than enough to enslave them, 
not. only to her reasonable will, but to all her most ty¬ 
rannical and whimsical caprices. She understands al¬ 
ready perfectly the people she is among ; and through 
her quick sagacity, has already risen to a power greater 
than woman ever before held in Rome. 

We see her often — often as ever—and when we 
see her, enjoy her as well. For with all her ambition of 
petty rule and imposing state, she possesses and retains 
a goodness of heart, that endears her to all, in spite of 
her follies. Julia is still her beloved Julia, and I her 
good friend Lucius ; but it is to Zenobia that she attach¬ 
es herself most closely ; and from her she draws most 
largely of the kind of inspiration which she covets. 
It is to her, too, I believe, that we may trace much ol 
the admirable wisdom — for such it must be allowed tc 
— with which Livia adorns the throne of the world. 


A U R E L I A N . 


2b 


Her residence, when Aurelian is absent from the city, 
is near us in the palace upon the Palatine ; but when 
he is here, it is more remote, in the enchanted gardens 
of Sallust. This spot, first ennobled by the presence of 
the great historian, to whose hand and eye of taste the 
chief beauties of the scene are to be traced, then afterward 
selected by Vespasian as an imperial villa, is now lately 
become the chosen retreat of Aurelian. It has indeed 
lost a part of its charms since it has been embraced, by the 
extension of the new walls, within the limits of the city ; 
but enough remain to justify abundantly the preference 
of a line of emperors. It is there that we see Livia 
most as we have been used to do, and where are forcibly 
brought to our minds the hours passed by us so instruc¬ 
tively in the gardens of Zenobia. Often Aurelian is of 
our company, and throws the light of his strong intellect 
upon whatever subject it is we discuss. He cannot, 
however, on such occasions, thoroughly tame to the tone 
of gentle society, his imperious and almost rude nature. 
The peasant of Pannonia will sometimes break through, 
and usurp the place of emperor ; but it is only for a 
moment ; for it is pleasing to note how the presence of 
Livia quickly restores him to himself; when, with more 
grace than one would look for, he acknowledges his 
fault, ascribing it sportively to the fogs of the German 
marshes. It amuses us to observe the power which the 
polished manners and courtly ways of Livia exercise 
over Aurelian, whose ambition seems now as violently 
bent upon subduing the world by the displays of taste, 
grace, and magnificence, as it once was to do it — and 
is still indeed--by force of arms. Having astonished 
3 


26 


A U R E L I A N . 


mankind in one way, he would astonish them again ir 
quite another ; and to this later task his whole nature is 
consecrated with as entire a devotion as ever it was tc 
the other. Livia is in all these things his model and 
guide ; and never did soldier learn to catch, from the 
least motion or sign of the general, his will, than does 
he, to the same end, study the countenance and the 
voice of the Empress. Yet is there, as you will believe, 
knowing the character of Aurelian as well as you do, 
nothing mean nor servile in this. He is ever himself, 
and beneath this transparent surface, artificially as¬ 
sumed, you behold, feature for feature, the lineaments 
of the fierce soldier glaring forth in all their native wild¬ 
ness and ferocity. Yet we are happy that there exists 
any charm potent enough to calm, but for hours or days, 
a nature so stern and cruel as to cause perpetual fears 
for the violences in which at any moment it may break 
out. The late slaughter in the very streets of Rome, 
when the Coelian ran with the blood of fifteen thousand 
Romans, butchered within sight of their own homes, 
with the succeeding executions, naturally fill us with 
apprehensions for the future. We call him generous, 
and magnanimous, and so he is, compared with former 
tyrants who have polluted the throne — Tiberius, Corn- 
modus, or Maximin ; but what title has he to that praise, 
when tried by the standard which our own reason sup¬ 
plies of those great virtues ? I confess it was not always 
so. His severity was formerly ever on the side of jus¬ 
tice ; it was indignation at crime or baseness which 
sometimes brought upon him the charge of cruelty — 
never the wanton infliction of suffering and death. But 
it certainly is not so now. A slight cause now rouses 


A U K E L I A N . 


2 ? 


his sleeping passions to a sudden fury, often fatal to the 
first object that comes in his way. But enough of this. 

Do not forget to tell me again of the Old Hermit of 
the mountains, and that you have visited him—if in¬ 
deed he be yet among the living. 

Even with your lively imagination, Fausta, you can 
hardly form an idea of the sensation which my open 
assertion of Christian principles and assumption of the 
Christian name has made in Rome. I intended when 
I sat down to speak only of this, but see how I have 
oeen led away ! My letters will be for the most part 
confined, I fear, to the subjects which engross both my¬ 
self and Julia most — such as relate to the condition and 
prospects of the new religion, and to the part which we 
take in the revolution which is going on. Not that I 
shall be speechless upon other and inferior topics, but 
that upon this of Christianity I shall be garrulous and 
overflowing. I believe that in doing this, 1 shall consult 
your preferences as well as my own. I know you to be 
desirous of principles better than any which as yet you 
have been able to discover, and that you will gladly learn 
whatever I may have it in my power to teach you from 
this quarter. But all the teaching I shall attempt will 
be to narrate events as they occur, and state facts as they 
arise, and leave them to make what impression they 
may. 

When I just spoke of the sensation which my adop¬ 
tion of the Christian system had caused in Rome, I did 
not mean to convey any idea like this, that it has been 
rare for the intelligent and cultivated to attach them¬ 
selves to this despised religion. On the contrary, it 
would be true were I to say, that they who accept 


28 


A U R E L I A N . 


Christianity, are distinguished for their intelligence, 
that estimated as a class, they rank far above the 
lowest. It is not the dregs of a people who become re¬ 
formers of philosophy or religion ; who grow dissatisfied 
with ancient opinions upon exalted subjects, and search 
about for better, and adopt them. The processes in¬ 
volved in this change, in their very nature, require in¬ 
telligence, and imply a character of more than common 
elevation. It is neither the lowest nor the highest who 
commence, and at first carry on, a work like this; but 
those who fill the intermediate spaces. The lowest are 
dead as brute matter to such interests ; the highest— 
the rich, the fashionable, the noble, from opposite 
causes just as dead ; or if they are alive at all, it is 
with the rage of denunciation and opposition. They 
are supporters of the decent usages sanctioned by an¬ 
tiquity, and consecrated by the veneration of a long line 
of the great and noble. Whether they themselves be¬ 
lieve in the system which they uphold or not, they are 
equally tenacious of it. They would preserve and per¬ 
petuate it, because it has satisfied, at any rate bound and 
overawed, the multitude for ages : and the experiment 
of alteration or substitution is too dangerous to be trmd. 
Most indeed reason not, nor philosophize at all, in the 
matter. The instinct that makes them Romans in their 
worship of the power and greatness of Rome, and attach¬ 
ment to her civil forms, makes them Romans in their 
religion, and will summon them, if need be, to die for 
the one and the other. 

Religion and philosophy have accordingly nothing to 
hope from this quarter. It is those whom we may term 
the substantial middle classes, who, being least hmdered 


A U R E L I A N . 


29 


Dy prejudices and pride of order, on the one hand, and 
incapacitated by ignorance on the other, have ever been 
the earliest and best friends of progress in any sci¬ 
ence. Here you find the retired scholar, the thoughtful 
and independent farmer, the skilful mechanic, the en¬ 
lightened merchant, the curious traveller, the inquisi¬ 
tive philosopher — all fitted, beyond those of either ex¬ 
treme, for exercising a sound judgment upon such ques- 
♦ions, and all more interested in them. It is out of 
these that Christianity has made its converts. They 
are accordingly worthy of universal respect. I have 
examined with diligence, and can say that there live 
not in Rome a purer and more noble company than the 
Christians. When I say however that it is out of 
these whom I have just specified, that Christianity 
has made its converts, I do not mean to say out 
of them exclasively. Some have joined them in the 
present age, as well as in every age past, from the most 
elevated in rank and power. If in Nero’s palace, and 
among his chief ministers, there were Christians, if 
Domitilla, Domitian’s niece, was a Christian, if the em¬ 
peror Philip was a Christian, so now a few of the same 
rank may be counted, who openly, and more who secretly, 
profess this religion. But they are very few. .So that 
you will not wonder that when the head of the ancient 
and honorable house of the Pisos, the friend of Aurelian, 
and allied to the royal family of Palmyra, declared him¬ 
self to be of this persuasion, no little commotion was 
observable in Rome — not so much among the Chris¬ 
tians as among the patricians, among the nobility 
m the court and palace of Aurelian. The love of many 
2 * 


VOL, I. 


30 


A U R E L I A i\ . 


has grown cold, and the outward toliens of respect are 
withheld. Brows darkened by the maligr.jnt passions 
of the bigot are bent upon me as I pass along the streets, 
and inquiries, full of scornful irony, are made after the 
welfare of my new friends. The Empero'* changes not 
his carriage toward me, nor, I believe, his feelings. I 
think he is too tolerant of opinion, too much a man of 
the world, to desire to curb and restrain the liberty of 
his friends in the quarter of philosophy and religion. I 
know indeed on the other hand, that he is religious in 
his way, to the extreme of superstition, but I have ob¬ 
served no tokens as yet of any purpose or wish to inter¬ 
fere with the belief or worship of others. He seems 
like one who, if he may indulge his own feelings in his 
own way, is not unwilling to concede to others the same 
freedom. 

As I was writing these last sentences, I became con¬ 
scious of a voice muttering in low tones, as if discours¬ 
ing with itself, and upon no very agreeable theme. I 
heeded it not at first, but wrote on. At length it ran 
thus, and I was compelled to give ear : 

Patience, patience — greatest of virtues, yet hardest 
of practice ! To wait indeed for a kingdom were some¬ 
thing, though it were upon a bed of thorns ; to suffer 
for the honor of truth, were more ; more in itself, and 
more in its rewards. But patience, when a fly stings, 
or a fool speaks, or worse, when time is wasted and lost, 
is — the virtue in this case mayhap is greater after all — 
but it is harder, I say, of practice — that is what I say — 
yet, for that veiy reason, greater! By Hercules! I 
Ivdievp it is so. So that while I wait here, my virtue oi 


patience is greater than that of thsse accursed Jew*. 
Patience then, I say, patience ! ’ 

‘ Wlmt in the name of all antiquity,’ I exclaimeu. 
turning round as the voice ceased, ‘ is this flood of phi¬ 
losophy for ? Wherein have I oflended ? ’ 

‘ Offended ! ’ cried the other ; ‘ Na.y, noble master, 

not offended. According to my conclusion, I owe thee 
thanks; for while I have stood waiting to catch thy eye 
and ear, my virtue has shot up like a wild vine. The 
soul has grown. I ought therefore rather to crave for¬ 
giveness of thee, for breaking up a study which was so 
profound, and doubtless so agreeable too.’ 

‘ Agreeable you will certainly grant it, when I tell you 
I was writing to your ancient friend and pupil, the daugh¬ 
ter of Gracchus.’ 

‘ Ah, the blessings of all the gods upon her. My 
dreams are still of her. I loved her, Piso, as I never 
loved beside, either form, shadow, or substance. I usea 
to think that I loved her as a parent loves his child — a 
arother his sister ; but it was more than that. Aristotle 
is not so dear to me as she. Bear witness these tears ! 
I would now, bent as I am, travel the Syrian deserts to 
see her ; especially if I might hear from her mouth a 
chapter of the great philosopher. Never did Greek, al¬ 
ways music, seem so like somewhat more divinely har¬ 
monious than anything of earth, as when it came through 
her lips. Yet, by Hercules! she played me many a 
mad prank ! ’Twould have been better for her and for 
letters, had I chastised her more, and loved her less. 
Condescend, noble Piso, to name me to her, and entreat 
her not to fall away from her Greek. That will be a 
consolation under all losses and all sorrows.’ 


52 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


‘ I will not fail to do so. And now in what is my 
opinion wanted ? ’ 

‘It is simply in the matter of these volumes, where 
thou wilt have them bestowed. The cases here, by their 
superior adorning, seem designed for the great master 
of all, and his disciples ; and it is here I would fain 
order them. Would it so please thee ? ’ 

‘ No, Solon, not here. That is designed for a very 
ditferent Master and his disciples.’ 

Solon looked at me as if unwilling lo credit his ears, 
hoping that something wmuld be added more honorable 
to the affronted philosopher and myself. But nothing 
coming, he said : 

‘ I penetrate — I apprehend. This, the very centre 
and post of honor, thou reservest for the atheisticalJews. 
The gods help us ! I doubt I should straight resign my 
office. Well, well ; let us hope that the increase ot 
years will bring an increase of wisdom. We cannot 
look for fruit on a sapling. Youth seeks novelty. But 
the gods be thanked ! Youth lasts not long, but is a 
fault daily corrected ; else the world were at a bad 
pass. Rome is not fallen, nor the fame of the Stagyrite 
hurt for this. But ’tis grievous to behold ! ’ 

So murmuring, as he retreated to the farther part of 
the library, with his bundle of rolls under his arm, he 
again busied himself in the labors of his office. 

I see, Fausta, the delight that sparkles in your eye 
and breaks over your countenance, as you learn that 
Solon, the incomparable Solon, is one of my household. 
No one whom I could think of, appeared so well suited 
0 my wants as librarian, as Solon, and I can by no 
means convey to you an idea of the satisfaction with 


AU RE LIAN. 


33 


which he hailed my offer; and abandoning th? lod and 
the brass tablets, betook himself to a labor which would 
yield him so much more leisure for the perusal of his 
favorite authors, and the pursuit of his favorite studies. 
He is already deep in the question, ‘ whether the walls 
of Troy were accommodated with thirty-three or thirty- 
nine gates,’ and also in this, ‘ what was the method of 
construction adopted in the case of the wooden horse, 
and what was its capacity ?’ Of his progress in these 
matters, I will duly inform you. 

But I weary your patience. Farewell. 

Piso, alluding in this letter to the slaughter on the 
Co3lian Hill, which happened not long before it was 
written, I will add here that whatever color it may have 
pleased Aurelian to give to that affair — as if it were 
occasioned by a dishonest debasement of the coin by the 
directors of the mint — there is now no doubt, on the 
part of any who are familiar with the history of that pe¬ 
riod, that the difficulty originated in a much deeper and 
more formidable cause, well known to Aurelian himself, 
but not spoken of by him, in alluding to the event. It 
is certain, then, that the civil war which then befel, for 
such it was, was in truth the breaking out of a conspir¬ 
acy on the part of the nobles to displace Aurelian — ‘ a 
German peasant,’ as they scornfully designated him — 
and set one of their own order upon the throne. They 
had already bought over the chief manager of the public 
mint — a slave and favorite of Aurelian — and had en¬ 
gaged him in creating, to serve the purposes which they 
had in view, an immense issue of spurious coin. This 
they had used too liberally, in effecting some of the pre* 


34 


A U R E L I A N . 


limiliary objects of their movement. It was suspected, 
tried, proved to be false, and traced to its authors. Be* 
fore they were fully prepared, the conspirators were 
obliged to take to their arms, as the only w'ay in wdiich 
to save themselves from the executioner. The contest 
was one of the bloodiest ever known within the walls ol 
the city. It was Aurelian, with a few legions of his 
army, and the people — always of his part—against 
the wealth and the power of the nobility, and their paid 
adherents. In one day, and in one battle, as it may be 
termed, fifteen thousand soldiers and citizens were slain 
in the streets of the capital. Truly does Piso say, the 
streets of the Ccelian ran blood. I happily was within 
the walls of the queen’s palace at Tibur ; but well do I 
remember the horror of the time — especially the days 
succeeding the battle, when the vengeance of the en¬ 
raged conqueror fell upon the noblest families of Rome, 
and the axe of the executioner was blunted and broken 
with the savage work which it did. 

No one has written of Aurelian and his reign, who 
has not applauded him for the defence which he made 
of his throne and crown, when traitorously assailed 
within the very walls of the capital ; but all unite also 
in condemning that fierce spirit of revenge, which, after 
the contest was over and his power secure, by confisca¬ 
tion, banishment, torture and death, involved in ruin so 
many whom a different treatment would have converted 
into friends. But Aurelian was by nature a tyrant ; it 
was accident whenever he was otherwise. If affairs 
moved on smoothly, he was the just or magnanimous 
prince ; if disturbed and perplexed, and his will crossed, 
be was the imperious and vindictive tyrant. 


A D R E L 1 A N > 


'i6 


LETTER II. 

from PISO TO FAUfTA. 

You need not, dear Fausta, concern yourself on oui 
behalf. I cannot think that your apprehensions will be 
realized. Rome never was more calm than now, nor 
apparently has there ever a better temper possessed its 
people. The number of those who are sufficiently en¬ 
lightened to know that the mind ought not to be in bon¬ 
dage to man, but be held answerable to God alone for 
its thoughts and opinions, is becoming too great for the 
violences and cruelties of former ages to be again put 
in practice against us. And Aurelian, although stern 
in his nature, and superstitious beyond others, will not, 
I am persuaded, lend himself either to priests or people 
to annoy us. If no principle of humanity prevented 
him, nor generosity of sentiment, he would be restrain¬ 
ed, I think, by his attachments to so many who bear the 
hated name. 

And this opinion I maintain, notwithstanding a recent 
act on the part of the Emperor, which some construe into 
the expression of unfavorable sentiments toward us. I 
allude to the appointment of Fronto, Nigridius Fronto, 
to be chief priest of the temple of the Sun, which has 
these several years been building, and is now just com 
pleted. This man signalized himself, both under Decius 
and Valerian, for his bitter hatred of the Christians, and 
bis untiring zeal in the work of their destruction. The 


36 


^ U R E L I A N . 


tales which are told of his ferocious barbarity, would be 
incredible, did we not know so well what the hard Eo- 
man heart is capable of. It is reported of him, that he 
informed against his own sisters, who had embraced the 
Christian faith, was with those who hunted them with 
blood-hounds from their place of concealment, and stood 
by, a witness and an executioner, while they were torn 
limb from limb, and devoured. I doubt not the truth of 
the story. And from that day to this, has he made it 
his sole office to see that all the laws that bear hard 
upon the sect, and deprive them of privileges and immu¬ 
nities, are not permitted to become a dead letter. It is 
this man, drunk with blood, whom Aurelian has put in 
chief authority in his new temple, and made him, in 
effect, the head of religion in the city. He is however 
not only this. He possesses other traits, which with 
reason might commend him to the regard of the Em¬ 
peror. He is an accomplished man, of an ancient family, 
and withal no mean scholar. He is a Roman, who for 
Rome’s honor or greatness, as he would on the one hand 
sacrifice father, mother, daughter, so would he also him¬ 
self. And Rome, he believes, lives but in her religion ; 
it is the life-blood of the state. It is these traits, I doubt 
not, that have recommended him to Aurelian, rather 
than the others. He is a person eminently fitted for the 
post to which he is exalted ; and you well know that it 
is the circumstance of fitness, Aurelian alone considers, 
in appointing his own or the servants of the state. Pro¬ 
bus thinks differently. And although he sees no cause 
to apprehend immediate violence, confesses his fears 
for the future. He places less reliance than I do upon 
the generosity or friendship of Aurelian. It is his 


A U R E L I A N . 


37 


conviction that superstition is the reigning power of his 
nature, and will sooner or later assert its supremacy. It 
may be so. Probus is an acute observer, and occupies 
a position more favorable to impartial estimates, and the 
formation of a dispassionate judgtnent, than I. 

This reminds me that you asked for news of Pro- 
bus, my ‘ Christian pedagogue,’ as you are wont to 
name him. He is here, adorning, by a life of severe 
simplicity and divine benevolence, the doctrine he has 
espoused. He is a frequent inmate of our house, and 
Julia, not less than myself, ever greets him with affec¬ 
tionate reverence, as both friend and instructer. He 
holds the chief place in the hearts of the Roman Chris¬ 
tians ; for even those of the sect who differ from him in 
doctrine and in ’ife, cannot but acknowledge that never 
an apostle presented to the love and imitation of his fol¬ 
lowers an example of rarer virtue. Yet he is not, 
in the outward rank which he holds, at the head of the 
Christian body. Their chiefs are, as you know, the 
bishops, and Felix is Bishop of Rome, a man every 
way inferior to Probus. But he has the good or ill 
fortune to represent more popular opinions, in matters 
both of doctrine and practice than the other, and of 
course easily rides into the posts of trust and honor. 
Ho represents those among the Christians — for, alas ! 
there are such among them — who, in seeking the 
elevation and extension of Christianity, do not hesitate 
to accommodate both doctrine and manner to the preju¬ 
dices and tastes of both Pagan and Jew. They seek 
converts, not by raising them to the height of Christian 
principie and virtue, but by lowering these to the leve^ 
4 voi.. I. 


38 


A U R E L I A N . 


of iheir grosser conceptions. Thus it is easy to see 
that in the hands of such professors, the Christian doc¬ 
trine is undergoing a rapid process of deterioration. 
Probus, and those who are on his part, see this, are 
alarmed, and oppose it ; but numbers are against them, 
and consequently power and authority. Already, 
strange as it may seem, when you compare such things 
with the institution of Christianity, as effected by its 
founder, do the bishops, both in Rome and in the 
provinces, begin to assume the state and bearing of no¬ 
bility. Such is the number and wealth of the Chris¬ 
tian community, that the. treasuries of the churches are 
full ; and from this source the pride and ambition of 
their rulers are luxuriously fed. If, as you walk through 
the street which crosses from the Quirinal to the Arch 
of Titus, lined with private dwellings of unusual mag¬ 
nificence, you ask whose is that with a portico, that for 
beauty and costliness rather exceeds the rest, you are 
told, ‘ That is the dwelling of Felix, the Bishop of 
Rome and if it chance to be a Christian who answers 
the question, it is done with ill-suppressed pride or shame, 
according to the party to which he belongs. This 
Felix is the very man, through the easiness of his dispo¬ 
sitions, and his proneness to all the arts of self-indul¬ 
gence, and the imposing graciousness of his carriage, to 
keep the favor of the people, and at the same time sink 
them, without suspicion on their part, lower and lower 
toward the sensual supertitions, from which, through so 
much suffering and by so many labors, they have but 
just escaped, and accomplish an adulterous and fatal 
union between Christianity and Paganism ; by which 
indeed Paganism may be to some extent pu ified and ex- 


A U R E L I A N. 


39 


Rlted, but Christianity defiled and depressed. For Chris* 
lianily, in its essence, is that which beckons and urges 
onward, not to excellence only, but to perfection. Of 
course its march is always in advance of the present. 
By such union with Paganism then, or Judaism, its es¬ 
sential characteristic will disappear ; Christianity will, 
in effect, perish. You may suppose, accordingly, that 
Probus, and others who with him rate Christianity so 
differently, look on with anxiety upon this downward 
tendency, and with mingled sorrow and indignation 
upon those who aid it — oftentimes actuated, as is noto¬ 
rious, by most corrupt motives. 


I am just returned from the shop of the learned Pub¬ 
lius, where I met Probus, and others of many ways of 
thinking. You will gather from what occurred, better 
than from anything else I could say, what occupies the 
thoughts of our citizens, and how they stand affected. 

I called to Milo to accompany me, and to take wi h 
him a basket in which to bring back books, which it 
was my intention to purchase. 

‘ I trust, noble master,’ said he, ‘ that I am to bear 
back no more Christian books.’ 

‘ Why so ?’ 

‘ Because the priests say that they have magical pow¬ 
ers over all who read them, or so much as handle 
them ; that a curse sticks wherever they are or have 
been. I have heard of those who have withered away 
to a mere wisp ; of others who have suddenly caught on 
fire, and vanished in flame and smoke ; and of others, 
whose blood has stood still, frozen, or run out from li 


40 


A U R U L I A N . 


parts of the body, changed to the very color of you! 
shoe, at their bare touch. Who should doubt that it is 
so, when the very boys in the streets have it, and it is 
taught in the temples ? I would rather Solon, noble 
master, went in my stead. Mayhap his learning would 
protect him.’ 

I, laughing, bade him come on. ‘ You are not with 
ered away yet, Milo, nor has your blood run out ; yet 
you have borne many a package of these horrible books. 
Surely the gods befriend you.’ 

‘ I were else long since with the Scipios.’ After a 
pause of some length, he added, as he reluctantly, and 
with features of increased paleness, followed in my steps : 

‘ I would, my master, that you might be wrought 
with to leave these ways. I sleep not for thinking of 
your danger. Never, when it was my sad mischance 
to depart from the deserted palace of the great Gallien- 
us, did I look to know one to esteem like him. But it 
IS the truth when I affirm, that I place Piso before 
Gallienus, and the lady Julia before the lady Salonina. 
Shall I tell you a secret ?’ 

' I will hear it, if it is not to be kept.’ 

‘ It is for you to do with it as shall please you. 
am the bosom friend, you may know, of Curio, the fa 
vorite slave of Pronto—’ 

‘ Must I not publish it ?’ 

‘ Nay, that is not the matter, though it is somewha 
to brast of. There is not Curio’s fellow in all Rome. 
But that may pass. Curio then, as I was with him at 
the new temple, while he was busied in some of the last 
offices before the dedication, among other things, said r 
‘ Is not thy master Piso of these Christians ?’ ‘ Yrs 


A U R E L I A N . 


41 


Baid I, ‘he is; and were they all such as he, there could 
be no truth in what is said of them.’ ‘ Ah ! ’ he replied, 
‘ there are few among the accursed tribe like him. He 
has but just joined them ; that’s the reason he is better 
than the rest. Wait awhile, and see what he will be¬ 
come. They are all alike in the end, cursers, and des- 
pisers, and disbelievers, of the blessed gods. But lions 
have teeth, tigers have claws, knives cut, fire burns, wa¬ 
ter drowns.’ There he stopped. ‘ That’s wise,’ I said, 
‘ who could have known it ?’ ‘ Think you,’ he rejoined, 

‘ Piso knows it ? If not, let him ask Pronto. Let me 
advise thee,’ he added, in a whisper, though in all th^ 
temple there were none beside us, ‘ let me advise thee,, 
as thy friend, to avoid dangerous company. Look to 
thyself ; the Christians are not safe.’ ‘ How say you,’ 
I replied, ‘ not safe ? What and whom are they to 

fear? Gallienus vexed them not. Is Aurelian-’ 

‘ Say no more,’ he replied, interrupting me, ‘ and name 
not what I have dropped, for your life. Fronto’s ears 
are more than the eyes of Argus, and his wrath more 
deadly than the grave.’ 

‘Just as he ended these words, a strong beam ot red 
light shot up from the altar, and threw a horrid glare 
over the whole dark interior. I confess I cried out with 
affright. Curio started at first, but quickly recovered, 
saying that it was but the sudden flaming up of the fire 
that had been burning on the altar, but which shortly 
before he had quenched. ‘ It is,’ said he, ‘ an omen of 
the flames that are to be kindled throughout Rome.’ 
This was Curio’s communication. Is it not a secret 
worth knowing ? ’ 

4 * 


VOL. 1 



42 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ It tells nothin^-, Milo, but of the boiling over of ihe 
ivrath of the malignant Fronto, which is always boiling 
over. Doubtless I should fare ill, were his power equal 
■,0 his will to harm us. But Aurelian is above him.’ 

‘ That is true ; and Aurelian, it is plain, is little like 
Fronto.’ 

‘ Very little.’ 

‘ But still I would that, like Gallienus, thou couldsl 
only believe in the gods. The Christians, so it is re¬ 
ported, worship and believe in but a man, — a Jew,— 
wFo was crucified as a criminal, with thieves and mur¬ 
derers.’ He turned upon me a countenance full ot 
unaffected horror. 

‘ Well, Milo, at another time I will tell you what 
the truth about it is. Here we are now, at the shop ot 
Publius.’ 

The shop of Publius is remarkable for its extent and 
m.agnificence, if such a word may be applied to a place 
of traffic. Here resort all the idlers of learning and 
of leisure, to turn over the books, hear the news, discuss 
the times, and trifle with the learned bibliopole. As I 
entered, he saluted me in his customary manner, and 
bade me ‘ welcome to his poor apartments, which for a 
long time,’ he said, ‘ I had not honored with my presence.’ 

I replied that two things had kept me away : the civil 
broils in which the city had just been involved, and the 
care of ordering the appointments of a new dwelling. 
I had come now to commence some considerable pur¬ 
chases for my vacant shelves, if it might so happen tha^ 
the books I wanted were to be found in his rooms. 

‘ There is not,’ he replied, ‘ a literature, a science, a 
philosophy, an nrt, or a religion, whose principal authors 


A U R E L I A N . 


4S 

are noi to be found upon the walls of Publius. My 
agents are in every corner of the empire, of the east 
and west, searching out the curious and the rare, the 
useful and the necessary, to swell the catalogue of my 
intellectual riches. I believe it is established, that in 
no time before me, as nowhere now, has there been 
heard of a private collection like this for value and for 
number.’ 

‘ I do not doubt what you say, Publius. This is a 
grand display. Your ranges of rooms show like those 
of the Ulpian. Yet you do not quite equal, I suppose. 
Trajan’s for number ?’ 

‘ Truly not. But time may bring it to pass. What 
shall I show you ? It pleases me to give my time to 
you. I am not slow to guess what it is you now, noble 
Piso, chiefly covet. And I think, if you will follow me 
to the proper apartment, I can set before you the very 
things you are in search of. Here upon these shelves 
are the Christian writers. Just let me offer you this 
copy of Hegesippus, one of your oldest historians, if I 
err not. And here are some beautifully executed 
copies, I have just ordered to be made, of the Apologies 
of Justin and Tertullian. Here, again, are Marcion 
and Valentinus ; but perhaps they are not in esteem 
with you. If I have heard aright, you will prefer these 
tracts of Paul, or Artemon. But hold, here is a cata¬ 
logue. Be pleased to inspect it.’ 

As I looked over the catalogue, I expressed my satis¬ 
faction that a person of his repute was willing to keep 
on sale works so generally condemned, and excluded 
from the shops of most of his craft. 


14 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ I aim, my dear friend — most worthy Piso — to steel 
E. midway course among contending factions. I am my* 
self a worshipper of the gods of my fathers. But I am 
content that others should do as they please in the mat¬ 
ter. lam not, however, so much a worshipper — in 
your ear — as a bookseller. That is my calling. The 
Christians are become a most respectable people. They 
are not to be overlooked. They are, in my judgment, 
the most intelligent part of our community. Wasting 
none of their time at the baths and theatres, they have 
more time for books. And then their numbers too ! 
They are not fewer than seventy thousand ! — known 
and counted. But the number, between ourselves, Piso 
of those who secretly favor or receive this doctrine, is 
equal to the other ! My books go to houses, ay, and to 
palaces, people dream not of.’ 

‘ I think your statements a little broad,’ said a smooth, 
silvery voice, close at our ears. We started, and beheld 
the Prefect Varus standing at our side. Publius was 
for a moment a little disconcerted ; but quickly recover¬ 
ed, saying in his easy way, ‘ A fair morning to you ! I 
knew not that it behooved me to be upon my oath, be¬ 
ing in the presence of the Governor of Rome. I repeat, 
noble Varus, but what I hear. I give what I say as the 
current rumor. That is all — that is all. Things may 
not be so, or they may ; it is not for me to say. I wish 
well to all ; that is my creed.’ 

‘ In the public enumerations of the citizens,’ replied 
the Prefect, inclining with civility to Publius, ‘ the 
Christians have reached at no time fifty thousand. As for 
the conjecture touching the number of those who secretly 
embrace this injurious superstition, I hold it utterly 


A U R E L I A N. 


45 


baseless. It may serve a dying cause to repeat such 
statements, but they accord not with obvious fact.’ 

‘ Suspect me not, Varus,’ hastily rejoined the ag tated 
Publius, ‘ of setting forth such statements with the pur¬ 
pose to advance the cause of the Christians. I take no 
part in this matter. Thou knowest that I am a Roman 
of the old stamp. Not a Roman in my street is more 
diligently attentive to the services of the temple than I. 
1 simply say again, what I hear as news of my custom¬ 
ers. The story which one rehearses, I retail to another.’ 

‘ I thank the gods it is so,’ replied the man of power. 

‘ During these few words, I had stood partly concealed 
by a slender marble pillar. I now turned, and the usual 
greetings passed with the Prefect. 

‘ Ah ! Piso ! I knew not with certainty my hearer. 
Perhaps from you ’— smiling as he spoke — ‘ we may 
learn the truth. Rome speaks loudly of your late de¬ 
sertion of the religion and worship of your fathers, and 
union with the Galileans. I should say, I hoped the 
report ill founded, had I not heard it from quarters too 
authentic to permit a doubt.’ 

‘ You have heard rightly. Varus,’ I rejoined. ‘ Atter 
searching through all antiquity after truth, I congratu¬ 
late myself upon having at last discovered it, and where 
I least expected, in a Jew. And the good which I 
have found for myself, I am glad to know is enjoyed by 
so many more of my fellow-citizens. I should not hes¬ 
itate to confirm the statement made by Publius, fronj 
whatever authority he may have derived it, rather than 
that which has been made by yourself. I have bestow¬ 
ed attention not only upon the arguments which sup¬ 
port Christianity, but upon the actual condition of tha 


46 


A U li E L I A N . 


Christian community, here and throughout the empire. 
It is prosperous at this hour, beyond all former example. 
If Pliny could complain, even in his day, of the deser¬ 
tion of the temples of the gods, what ma^y we now sup¬ 
pose to be the relative numbers of the two great par¬ 
ties ? Only, Varus, allow the rescript of Gallienus to 
continue in force, which merely releases us from op¬ 
pressions, and we shall see in what a fair trial of 
strength between the two religions will issue.’ 

‘ That dull profligate and parricide,’ replied Varus, 
‘ not content with killing himself with his vices, and his 
father by connivance, must needs destroy his country by 
his fatuity. I confess, that till that order be repealed, 
the superstition will spread.’ 

‘ But it only places us upon equal ground.’ 

‘ It is precisely there where we never should be 
placed. Should the conspirator be put upon the ground 
of a citizen ? Were the late rebels of the mint to be 
relieved from all oppression, that they might safely in¬ 
trigue and conspire for the throne ?’ 

‘ Christianity has nothing to do with the empire,’ I 
answered, ‘ as such. It is a question of moral, philoso¬ 
phical, religious truth. Is truth to be exalted or sup¬ 
pressed by edicts ? ’ 

‘ The religion of the state,’ replied Varus, ‘ is a part 
of the state ; and he who assails it, strikes at the dearest 
life of the state, and — forgive me — is to be dealt with 
— ought to be dealt with — as a traitor.’ 

‘ I trust,’ I replied, ‘ that that time will never again 
come, but that reason and justice will continue to bear 
sway. And it is both reasonable and just, that persons 
n*ho yield to none in love of country, and tv^hose princi- 


AU RE LIAN. 


47 


pies of conduci are such as must make good subjects 
everywhere, because they first make good men, should 
oe protected in the enjoyment of rights and privileges 
common to all others.’ 

‘ If the Christians,’ he rejoined, ‘ are virtuous men, it 
is better for the state than if they were Christians and 
corrupt men. But still that would make no change in 
my judgment of their offence. They deny the gods 
who preside over this nation, and have brought it up to 
its present height of power and fame. Their crime 
were less, I repeat, to deny the authority of Aurelian. 
This religion of the Galileans is a sore, eating into the 
vitals of an ancient and vigorous constitution, and must 
be cut away. The knife of the surgeon is what the 
evil cries out for and must have — else come universal 
rottenness and death. I mourn that from the ranks of 
the very fathers of the state, they have received an ac¬ 
cession like this of the house of Piso.’ 

‘ I shall think my time and talent well employed,’ I 
replied, ‘ in doing what I may to set the question of 
Christianity in its true light before the city. It is this 
very institution, Varus, which it needs to preserve it. 
Christianize Rome, and you impart the very principle. 
of endurance, of immortality. Under its present cor¬ 
ruptions, it cannot but sink. Is it possible that a com¬ 
munity of men can long hold together as vicious as this 
of Rome ? — whose people are either disbelievers of all 
divine existences, or else ground to the earth by the 
most degrading superstitions? A nation, either on the 
one hand governed by superstition, or, on the other, 
atheistical, contains within itself the disease whicb 
sooner or later vvill destroy it. You yourself, it is no 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


iS 

forious, have never been within the walls of a tem- 
j)le, nor are Lares or Penates to be found within youi 
doors.’ 

‘ 1 deny it not,’ rejoined the Prefect. ‘ Most who 
rise to any intelligence, must renounce, if they ever har¬ 
bored it, all faith in the absurdities and nonsense of the 
Roman religion. But what then ? These very absur¬ 
dities, as we deem them, are holy truth to the multi¬ 
tude, and do more than all bolts, bars, axes, and gibbets, 
to keep them in subjection. The intelligent are good 
citizens by reflection ; the multitude, through instincts 
of birth, and the power of superstition. My idea is, as 
you perceive, Piso, but one. Religion is the state, and 
for reasons of state must be preserved in the very form 
in which it has so long upheld the empire.’ 

‘ An idea more degrading than yours, to our species,’ 
I replied, ‘ can hardly be conceived. I cannot but look 
upon man as something more than a part of the state. 
He is, first of all, a man, and is to be cared for as such. 
To legislate for the state, to the ruin of the man, is to 
pamper the body, and kill the soul. It is to invert the 
true process. The individual is more than the abstrac¬ 
tion which we term the state. If governments cannot 
exist, nor empires hold their sway, but by the destruc¬ 
tion of the human being, why let them fall. The lesser 
must yield to the greater. As a Christian, my concern 
IS for man as man. This is the essence of the re¬ 
ligion of Christ. It is philanthropy. It sees in every 
human soul a being of more value than empires, and its 
purpose is, by furnishing it with truths and motives, 
eq"al to its wants, to exalt it, purify it, and perfect it. 
'f n achieving this work, existing religions or go 'em- 


A U R E L I A N. 


49 


merits are necessarily overturned or annihilated, Chris¬ 
tianity cares not, so long as man is the gainer. And ig 
■t not certain, that no government could really be injur¬ 
ed, although it might apparently, and for a season, by 
its subjects being raised in all intelligence and all vir¬ 
tue ? My work therefore. Varus, will be to sow truth 
in the heart of the people, which shall make that heart 
fertile and productive. I do not believe that in doing 
this Rome will suffer injury, but on the contrary receive 
benefit. Its religion, or rather its degrading supersti¬ 
tions, may fall, but a principle of almighty energy and 
divine purity will insensibly be substituted in their room. 
I labor for man — not for the state.’ 

‘ And never, accordingly, most noble Piso, did man, 
in so unequivocal words, denounce himself traitor.’ 

‘ Patriot ! friend ! benefactor! rather ;’ cried a voice 
at my side, which I instantly recognized as that of Pro¬ 
bus. Several beside himself had drawn near, listening 
with interest to what was going on. 

‘ That only shows, my good friend,’ said Varus, in his 
same smiling way, and which seems the very contradic¬ 
tion of all that is harsh and cruel, ‘ how differently we 
estimate things. Your palate esteems that to be whole¬ 
some and nutritious food, which mine rejects as ashes 
to the taste, and poison to the blood. I behold Rome 
torn and bleeding, prostrate and dying, by reason of in¬ 
novations upon faith and manners, which to you appear 
the very means of growth, strength, and life. How 
shall we resolve the doubthow reconcile the contra 
diction ? Who shall prescribe for the patient ? I arr 
happy in the belief, that the Roman people have long 
5 VOL. I. 


50 


A U R E L I A N. 


since decided for themselves, and confirm then decision 
every day as it passes, by new acts and declarations.’ 

‘ If you me€in,’ said Probus, ‘ to say that numbers 
and the general voice are still against the Christians, I 
grant it so. But I am happy too in my belief, that the 
scale is trembling on the beam. There are more and 
better than you wot of, who hail with eager minds and 
glad hearts, the truths which it is our glory, as servants 
of Christ, to propound. Within many a palace upon 
the seven hills, do prayers go up in his name ; and 
what is more, thousands upon thousands of the humbler 
ranks, of those who but yesterday were without honor 
in their own eyes, or others’ — without faith — at war 
with themselves and the world — fit tools for and foe of 
the state to work with — are to-day reverers of them¬ 
selves, worshippers of God, lovers of mankind, patriots 
who love their country better than ever before, because 
they now behold in every citizen not only a citizen, but 
a brother and an immortal. The doctrine of Christian¬ 
ity, as a lover of man, so commends itself. Varus, to 
the hearts of the people, that in a few more years ol 
prosperity, and the face of the Roman world will glow 
with a new beauty ; love and humanity will shine forth 
in all its features. 

‘ That is very pretty,’ said Varus, hii; lip slightly curl¬ 
ing, as he spoke, but retaining his courteous bearing, 
‘ yet melhinks, seeing this doctrine is so bewitching, and 
is withal a heaven-inspired wisdom, the God working 
behind it and urging it on, it moves onward with a pace 
something of the slowest. Within a few of three hun¬ 
dred years has it appealed to the human race, and ap- 
Dealed in vain. The feeblest and the worst of mankind 


A U K E L 1 A N . 


61 


have had power almost to annihilate it, and more tlian 
once has it seemed scarce to retain its life. Would it 
have been so, had it been in reality what you claim for 
it, of divine birth ? Would the gods suffer their schemes 
for man’s good to be so thwarted, and driven aside by 
man ? What was this boasted faith doing during the 
long and peaceful reigns of Hadrian, and the first An- 
tonine ? The sword of persecution was then sheathed, 
or if it fell at all, it was but on a few. So too under 
Vespasian, Titus, Nerva, Commodus, Severus, Helio- 
gabalus, the Philips, Gallienus, and Claudius ? ’ 

‘ That is w'ell said,’ a Roman voice added, of one 
standing by the side of Varus, ‘ and is a general 
wonder.’ 

‘ I marvel it should be a wonder,’ rejoined Probus. 
‘ Can you pour into a full measure ? Must it not be 
first emptied ? Who, Varus, let him try as he may, 
could plant the doctrine of Christ in thy heart ? Could 
I do it, think you ? — or Piso ? ’ 

‘ I trow not.’ 

‘ And why, I pray you ? ’ 

‘ It is not hard to guess.’ 

‘ Is it not because you are already full of contrary 
notions, to which you cling tenaciously, and from which, 
perhaps, no human force could drag you ? But yours 
is a type of every other Roman mind to which Chris¬ 
tianity has been offered. If you receive it not at once, 
should others ? Suppose the soul to be full of sincere 
convictions as to the popular faith, can the gospel easily 
enter there ? Suppose it skeptical, as to all spiritual 
truth ; can it enter there ? S.uppose it polluted by vice ' 


52 


A U R E L l A N . 


cat! it easily enter there ? Suppose it like the soul of 
Fronto,-’ 

‘ Hush ! hush !’ said several voices. Prolus heeded 
them not. 

‘ Suppose it like the soul of Fronto, could it enter 
there ? See you not then, by knowing your own hearts, 
Vidiat time it must demand for a new, and specially a 
f.trict doctrine, to make its way into the minds of 
men ? ’T is not easier to bore a rock with one’s finger, 
than to penetrate a heart hardened by sin or swelled 
with prejudice and pride. And if we say. Varus, this 
was a work for the God to do— that he who originated 
the faith should propagate it — I answer, that would not 
be like the other dealings of the divine power. He 
furnishes you with earth and seed, but he ploughs not 
for you, nor plants, nor reaps. He gives you reason, 
out he pours not knowledge into your mind. So he 
offers truth ; but that is all. He compels no assent ; 
he forces no belief. All is voluntary and free. How 
then can the march of truth be otherwise than slow ? 
Truth, being the greatest thing below, resembles in its 
port the motion of the stars, which are the greatest 
things above. But like theirs, if slow, it is ever sure 
and onward.’ 

‘ The stars set in night.’ 

‘ But they rise again. Truth is eclipsed often, and 
it sets for a night ; but never is turned aside from its 
eternal path.’ 

• Never, Publius,’ said the Prefect, adjusting his 
gown, and with the act filling the air with perfume 
‘ never did I think to find myself within a Christian 
church. Your shop possesses many virtues. It is s 


A U R E L I A N . 


53 


olace to be instructed in.’ Then turning to Probus, he 
soothingly and in persuasive tones, added, ‘ Be advised 
now, good friend, and leave off thy office of teacher 
Rome can well spare thee. Take the judgment of 
others ; we need not thy doctrine. Let that alone which 
is well established and secure. Spare these institu¬ 
tions, venerable through a thousand years. Leave 
changes to the gods.’ 

Probus was about to reply, when we were strangely 
interrupted. • While we had been conversing, there 
stood before me, in the midst of the floor of the apart¬ 
ment, a man, whose figure, face, and demeanor were 
such that I hardly could withdraw my eye from him. 
He was tall and gaunt, beyond all I ever saw, and erect 
as a Praetorian in the ranks. His face was strongly 
Roman, thin and bony, with sunken cheeks, a brown 
and wrinkled skin — not through age, but exposure — 
and eyes more wild and fiery than ever glared in the 
head of Hun or hyena. He seemed a living fire-brand 
of death and ruin. As we talked, he stood there mo¬ 
tionless, sometimes casting glances at our group, but 
more frequently fixing them upon a roll which he held 
in his hands. 

As Varus uttered the last words, this man suddenly 
left his post, and reaching us with two or three strides, 
shook his long finger at Varus, saying, at the sama 
time, 

‘ Hold, blasphemer !’ 

The Prefect started as if struck, and gazing a mo 
ment with unfeigned amazement at the figure, then irr 
mediately burst into a laugh, crying out, 

5* VOL I. 


64 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ ria ! ha ! Who in the name of Hecate have we 
here ? Ha ! ha ! — he seems just escaped from the 
Vivaria.’ 

‘ Thy laugh,’ said the figure, ‘ is the music of a sick 
and dying soul. It is a rebel’s insult against the majes¬ 
ty of Heaven ; ay, laugh on ! That is what the devils 
do ; it is the merriment of hell. What time they bufn 
not, they laugh. But enough. Hold now thy scoffing, 
Prefect Varus, for, high as thou art, I fear thee not : 
no ! not wert thou twice Aurelian, instead of Varus. I 
have somewhat for thee. Wilt hear it ?’ 

‘ With delight, Bubo. Say on.’ 

‘ It was thy word just now, ‘ Rome needs not this 
doctrine,’ was it not ? ’ 

‘ If I said it not, it is a good saying, and I will father 

it.’ 

‘ ‘ Rome needs not this doctrine ; she is well enough ; 
let her alone ! ’ These were thy words. Need not. 
Varus, the streets of Rome a cleansing river to purify 
them ? Dost thou think them well enough, till all the 
fountains have been let loose to purge them ? Is Tar- 
quin’s sewer a place to dwell in ? Could all the wa¬ 
ters of Rome sweeten it ? The people of Rome are 
fouler than her highways. The sewers are sweeter 
than the very worshippers of our temples. Thou know- 
est somewhat of this. Wast ever present at the rites of 
Bacchus ? — or those of the Cyprian goddess ? Nay, 
blush not yet. Didst ever hear of the gladiator Pollex ? 
■—of the woman Csecina ? — of the boy Lselius, and the 
fair girl Fannia — proffered and sold by the parents, 
Pollex and Caecina, to the loose pleasures of Gallienus ? 
Now I give thee leave to blush ! Is it nought that the 


A U R E L I A N . 


55 


one half of Rome is sunk in a sensuality, a beastly 
drunkenness and lust, fouler than that of old, which, in 
Judea, called down the fiery vengeance of the insulted 
heavens? Thou knowest well, both from early experi¬ 
ence and because of thy office, what the purlieus of the 
theatres are, and places worse than those, and which 
to name were an offence. But to you they need not 
be named. Is all this, Varus, well enough ? Is this 
that venerable order thou wouldst not have disturbed ^ 
Is that to be charged as impiety and atheism, which 
aims to change and reform it ? Are they conspirators^ 
and rebels, and traitors, whose sole office and labor is 
to mend these degenerate morals, to heal these corrupt¬ 
ing sores, to pour a better life into the rotting carcass of 
this guilty city ? Is it for our pastime, or our profit, 
that we go about this always dangerous work ? Is it a 
pleasure to hear the gibes, jests, and jeers of the streets 
and the places of public resort ? Will you not believe 
that it is for some great end that we do and bear as thou 
seest — even the redemption, and purifying, and saving 
of Rome ? I love Rome, even as a mother, and for her 
am ready to die. I have bled for her freely in battle, 
in Gaul, upon the Danube, in Asia, and in Egypt. I 
am willing to bleed for her at home, even unto death, if 
that blood might, through the blessing of God, be a 
stream to cleanse her putrifying members. But O, 
holy Jesus ! why waste I words upon one whose heart 
is harder than the nether millstone ! Thou preachedst 
not to Pilate, nor didst thou work thy wonders for 
Herod. Varus, beware !’ 

* And with these words, uttered with a wild and 


S6 


A U R E L T A W . 


vhreatening air, he abruptly turned away, and was lost 
in the crowds of the street. 

While he raved, the Prefect maintained the same un¬ 
ruffled demeanor as before. His customary smile play¬ 
ed around his mouth, a smile like no other I ever 
saw. To a casual observer, it would seem like every 
other smile, but to one who watches him, it is evident 
that it denotes no hilarity of heart, for the eyes accom¬ 
pany it not with a corresponding expression, but on the 
contrary, look forth from their beautiful cavities with 
glances that speak of anything rather than of peace and 
good-will. So soon as the strange being who had been 
declaiming had disappeared, the Prefect, turning to me, 
as he drew up his gown around him, said, 

‘ I give you joy, Piso, of your coadjutor. A few more 
of the same fashion, and Rome is safe.’ And saluting 
us with urbanity, he sallied from the shop. 

I had been too much amazed, myself, during this 
scene, to do anything else than stand still, and listen, 
and observe. As for Probus, I saw him to be greatly 
moved, and give signs of even deep distress. He evi¬ 
dently knew who the person was — as I saw him make 
more than one ineffectual effort to arrest him in his 
harangue—and as evidently held him in respect, seeing 
he abstained from all interruption of a speech that he 
felt to be provoking wantonly the passions of the Pre • 
feet, and of many who stood around, from whom, sc 
soon as the man of authority had withdrawn, angry 
words broke forth abundantly. 

‘ Well did the noble Prefect say, that that wild an 
imal had ome forth like a half-famished tiger fron? 
the Viveria,’ said one 


A U R E L I A N . 


57 


‘ It is singular,’ observed another, ‘ that a man vvhr 
pretends to reform the state, should think to do it by first 
putting it into a rage with him, and all he utters.’ 

‘ Especially singular,’ added a third, ‘ that the advo¬ 
cate of a religion that, as I hear, condemns violence, and 
consists in the strictness with which the passions are 
governed, should suppose that he was doing any other 
work than entering a breach in his own citadel, by such 
ferocity. But it is quite possible his wits are touched.’ 

‘ No, I presume not,’ said the first ; ‘ this is a kind ot 
zeal which, if I have observed aright, the Christians 
hold in esteem.’ 

As these separated to distant parts of the shop, I said 
to Probus, who seemed heavily oppressed by what had 
occurred, ‘ What daemon dwells in that body that has 
just departed ? ’ 

‘ Well do you say d^mon. The better mind of that 
man seems oft-times seized upon by some foul spirit, 
and bound — which then acts and speaks in its room. 
But do you not know him ? ’ 

‘ No, truly ; he is a stranger to me, as he appears to 
be to all.’ 

‘ Nevertheless, you have been in his company. You 
forget not the Mediterranean voyage V 

‘ By no means. I enjoyed it highly, and recall it 
ever with delight.’ 

‘ Do you not remember, at the time I narrated to 
you the brief story of my life, that, as I ended, a rough 
voice from among the soldiers exclaimed, ‘ Where now 
are the gods of Rome ?’ This is that man, the soldier 
Macer ; then bound with fellow soldiers to the service. 
«n Africa, now a Christian preacher.’ 


58 


A U R E L I A N 


‘ I see it now. That man impressed me then with his 
thin form and all-devouring eyes. But the African cli¬ 
mate, and the gash across his left cheek, and which 
seems to have slightly disturbed the eye upon that 
side, have made him a different being, and almost a ter¬ 
rific one. Is he sound and sane ?’ 

‘ Perfectly so,’ replied Probus, ‘ unless we may say 
that souls earnestly devoted and zealous, are mad. 
There is not a more righteous soul in Rome. His con¬ 
science is bare, and shrinking like a fresh wound. His 
breast is warm and fond as a woman’s — his penitence 
for the wild errors of his pagan youth, a consuming 
fire, which, while it redoubles his ardor in doing what 
he may in the cause of truth, rages in secret, and, if the 
sword or the cross claim him not, will bring him to 
the grave. He is utterly incapable of fear. All the 
racks and dungeons of Rome, with their tormentors, 
could not terrify him.’ 

‘ You now interest me in him. I must see and know 
him. It might be of service to him and to all. Probus, 
methinks, if he could be brought to associate with those 
whose juster notions might influence his, and modify 
them to the rule of truth.’ 

‘ I fear not. What he sees, he sees clearly and 
strongly, and by itself. He understands nothing of one 
truth bearing upon another, and adding to it, or taking 
from it. Truth is truth with him—and as his own 
mind perceives it — not another’s. His conscience will 
allow him in no accommodations to other men’s opinions 
or wishes ; with him, right is right, wrong is wrono- 
He is impatient under an argument as a war-horse un 
der the rein after the trumpet sounds. It is unavoida 


A U R E L I A N. 


59 


ole therefore out he should possess great power among 
the Christians of Rome. His are the bold and decisive 
qualities that strike the common mind. There is glory 
and applause in following and enduring under such a 
leader. Many are fain to believe birn divinely illumi¬ 
nated and impelled, to unite the characters of teacher 
and prophet ; and from knowing that he is so regard¬ 
ed by others, Macer has come almost to believe it 
himself. He is tending more and more to construe ev¬ 
ery impulse of his own mind into a divine suggestion, 
and I believe honestly experiences difficulty in discrim¬ 
inating between them. Still, I do not deny that it would 
be of advantage for him more and more to come in con¬ 
tact with sober and enlightened minds. I shall take 
pleasure, at some fitting moment, to accompany you to 
his humble dwelling ; the rather as I would show you 
also his wife and children, all of whom are like himself 
Christians.’ 

‘ I shall not forget the promise.’ 

Whereupon we separated. 

I then searched for Publius, and making my pur¬ 
chases, returned home, Milo following with the 
books. 

As Milo relieved himself of his burden, discharg¬ 
ing it upon the floor of the library, I overheard him 
to say, 

‘ Lie there, accursed rolls ! May the flames consume 
you, ere you are again upon my shoulders ! For none 
but Piso would I have done what I have. Let me to 
the temple and expiate.’ 

‘ What words are these ?’ cried Solon, emerging 
suddenly at the sound from a recess. ‘ Who dares to 


60 


0 R E L 1 A N . 


heap curses upon books, which are the soul embalmed 
and made imperishable ? What have we here ? Aha ! 
a new treasure for these vacant shelves, and most 
trimly ordered.’ 

‘ These, venerable Greek,’ exclaimed Milo, waving 
him away, ‘ are books of magic ! oriental magic ! Have 
a care ! A touch may be fatal ! Our noble master af¬ 
fects the Egyptians.’ 

‘ Magic ! ’ exclaimed Solon, with supreme contempt ; 

‘ art thou so idiotic as to put credence in such fancies ? 
Away !—hinder me not ! ’ And saying so, he eagerly 
grasped a volume, and unrolling it, to the beginning of 
the work, dropped it suddenly, as if bitten by a serpent. 

‘Ha!’ cried'Milo, ‘said I not so? Art thou so 
idiotic, learned Solon, as to believe in such fancies ? 
How is it with thee ? Is thy blood bot or cold ? — thy 
teeth loose or fast ? — thy arm withered or swollen ? ’ 

Solon stood surveying the pile, with a look partly of 
anger, partly of sorrow. 

‘ Neither, fool ! ’ he replied. ‘ These possess not the 
power nor worth fabled of magic. They are books of 
dreams, visions, reveries, which are to the mind what 
fogs would be for food, and air for drink, innutritive 
and vain. Papias ! — Irenaeus 1 — Hegesippus ! — Po¬ 
lycarp!— Origen !—whose names are these, and to 
whom familiar ? Some are Greek, some are Latin, but 
not a name famous in the world meets my eye. But 
we will order them on their shelves, and trust that time, 
which accomplishes all things, will restore reason to 
Piso. Milo, essay thy strength — my limbs are feeble 
— and lift these upon yonder marble , s^ may age deal 
gently with thee ’ 


AU RE LIAN 


61 


‘ Not for their weight in wifsdom, Solon, would I 
again touch them. I have borne them hither, and if 
the priests speak truly, my life is worth not an obolus. 
I were mad to tempt my fate farther.’ 

‘ Avaunt thee, then, for a fool and a slave, as thou 
art ! ’ 

‘ Nay now, master Solon, thy own wisdom forsakes 
thee. Philosophers, they say, are ever possessors of 
themselves, though for the rest they be beggars.’ 

‘ Beggar ! sayest thou ? Avaunt ! I say, or Papias 
shall teach thee’—and he would have launched the 
roll at the head of Milo, but that, with quick instincts, 
he shot from the apartment, and left the pedagogue to 
do his own bidding. 

So, Fausta, you see that Solon is still the irritable 
)Jd man he was, and Milo the fool he was. Think not 
me worse than either, for hoping so to entertain you. 
I know that in your solitude and grief, even such pic¬ 
tures may be welcome. 

When I related to Julia the scene and the conversa¬ 
tion at the shop of Publius, she listened not without 
agitation, and expresses her fears lest such extravagan¬ 
ces, repeated and become common, should inflame the 
minds both of the people and their rulers against the 
Christians. Though I agree with her in lamenting the 
excess of zeal displayed by many of the Christians, and 
their needless assaults upon the characters and faith ot 
their opposers, I cannot apprehend serious consequen¬ 
ces from them, because the instances of it are so few 
and rare, and are palpable exceptions to the general 
character which I believe the whole city would unite in 
6 


VOL. I. 


62 


A U R E L I A N . 


ascribing to this people. Their mildness and paidfic 
temper are perhaps the very traits by which they are 
most distinguished, with which they are indeed contin¬ 
ually reproached. Yet individual acts are often the 
remote causes of vast universal evil — of bloodshed, 
war, and revolution. Macer alone is enough to set on 
fire a city, a continent, a wprld. 

I rejoice, I cannot tell you how sincerely, in all your 
progress, I do not doubt in the ultimate return of the 
city 10 Its former populousness and wealth, at least. 
Aurelian has done well for you at last. His disburse¬ 
ments for the Temple of the Sun alone are vast, and 
must be more than equal to its perfect restoration. Yet 
his overthrown column you will scarce be tempted to 
rebuild. Forget not to assure Gracchus and Calpur- 
nius of my affection. Farewell. 


A I' R F. L I A N 


63 


LETTER HI. 

FROM PISO TO FAU TA. 

You are right, Fausta, in your unfavorable judg¬ 
ment of the Roman populace. The Romans are not a 
people one would select to whom to propose a religion 
like this of Christianity. All causes seem to combine 
to injure and corrupt them. They are too rich. The 
wealth of subject kingdoms and provinces finds its way 
to Rome ; and not only in the form of tribute to the 
treasury of the empire, but in that of the private fortunes 
amassed by such as have held offices in them for a few 
years, and who then return to the capital to dissipate in 
extravagance and luxuries, unknown to other parts ot 
the world, the riches wrung by violence, injustice, and 
avarice from the wretched inhabitants whom fortune 
had delivered into their power. Yes, the wealth of 
Rome is accumulated in such masses, not through the 
channels of industry or commerce ; it arrives in bales 
and ship-loads, drained from foreign lands by the hand 
of extortion. The palaces are not to be numbered, built 
and adorned in a manner surpassing those of the mon- 
archs of other nations, which are the private residences 
of those, or of the descendants of those who for a few 
years have presided over some distant province, but in 
that brief time, Verres-like, have used their opportuni- 
hes so well as to return home oppressed with a wealth 
tvhich life proves not long enough to spend, notwith- 


64 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


Standing the aid of dissolute and spendthrift sons. 
Here have we a single source of evil equal to the ruin 
of any people. The morals of no community could be 
protected against such odds. It is a mountain torrent 
tearing its way through the fields of the husbandman, 
whose trees and plants possess no strength of branch or 
root to resist the inundation. 

Then in addition to all this, there are the largesses 
of the Emperor, not only to his armies, but to all the 
citizens of Rome ; which are now so much a matter of 
expectation, that rebellions I believe would ensue were 
they not bestowed. Aurelian, before his expedition to 
Asia, promised to every citizen a couple of crowns — he 
has redeemed the promise by the distribution, not of 
money but of bread, two loaves to each, with the figure 
of a crown stamped upon them. Besides this, there 
has been an allowance of meat and pork — so much to 
all the lower orders. He even contemplated the addi¬ 
tion of wine to the list, but was hindered by the ju¬ 
dicious suggestion of his friend and general, Mucapor, 
that if he provided wine and pork, he would next be 
obliged to furnish them fowls also, or public tumults 
might break out. This recalled him to his senses. 
Still however only in part, for the other grants have not 
been withdrawn. In this manner is this whole popula¬ 
tion supported in idleness. Labor is confined to the 
slaves. The poor feed upon the bounties of the Empe¬ 
ror, and the wealth so abundantly lavished by senators, 
nobles, and the retired proconsuls. Their sole employ¬ 
ment is, to wait upon the pleasure of their many mas¬ 
ters, serve them as they are ready enough to do, in the 
toils and preparations of luxury, and what time they ar« 


AU RE LI A N. 


65 


noi thus cccupicJ, pass the remainder of their hours at 
the theatres, at the circuses, at games of a thousand 
kinds, or in noisy groups at the corners of the streets 
and oi the market-places. 

it is become a state necessity to provide amusements 
for llip populace m order to be safe against their vio¬ 
lence. The theatres, the baths, with their ample 
provisions for passing away time in some indolent a- 
musernent or active game, are always open and always 
crowded. Public or funeral games are also in progress 
without intermission in different parts of the capital. 
Those instituted in honor of the gods, and which make 
a part of the very religion of the people are seldom 
suspended for even a day. At one temple or another, 
in this grove or that, within or without the walls, are 
these lovers of pleasure entertained by shows, proces¬ 
sions, music, and sacrifices. And as if these were not 
enough, or when they perchance fail for a moment, and 
the sovereign people are listless and dull, the Flavian 
is thrown open by the imperial command, the Vivaria 
vomit forth their maddened and howling tenants either 
to destroy each other, or dye the dust of the arena with 
the blood of gladiators, criminals, or captives. These 
are the great days of the Roman people ; these their fa¬ 
vorite pleasures. The cry through the streets in the 
morning of even women and boys, ‘ Fifty captives to-day 
for the lions in the Flavian,’ together with the more 
solemn announcement of the same by the public heralds, 
and by painted bills at the corners of the streets, and 
on the public baths, is sure to throw the city into a fe¬ 
ver of excitement, and rivet by a new bond the affec 
6* VOL. I. 


66 


A U R E L I A N . 


tions of this blood-thirsty people to their indulgent Em¬ 
peror. 

Hardly has the floor of the amphitheatre been renewed 
since the cessation of the triumphal games of Aurelian, 
oefore it is again to be soaked with blood in honor of 
Apollo, whose magnificent temple is within a few days 
to be dedicated. 

Never before I believe was there a city whose inhab¬ 
itants so many and so powerful causes conspired to cor¬ 
rupt and morally destroy. Were I to give you a picture 
of the vices of Rome, it would be too dark and foul a 
one for your eye to read, but not darker nor fouler than 
you will suppose it must necessarily be to agree with 
what I have already said. Where there is so little in¬ 
dustry and so much pleasure, the vices will flourish and 
shoot up to their most gigantic growth. Not in the 
days of Nero were they more luxuriant than now. Au¬ 
relian, in the first year of his reign, laid upon them a 
severe but useful restraint, and they were checked for a 
time. But since he has himself departed from the sim¬ 
plicity and rigor of that early day, and actually or vir¬ 
tually repealed the laws which then were promulged 
for the reformation of the city in its manners, the peo¬ 
ple have also relapsed, and the ancient excesses are 
renewed. 

This certainly is not a people who, in its whole mass, 
will be eager to receive the truths of a religion like 
this of Christianity. It will be repulsive to them. You 
are right in believing that among the greater part it 
will find no favor. But all are not such as I have de¬ 
scribed. There are others different in all respects, who 
stand waiting the appearance of some principles of phi- 


A U R E L I A N . 


67 


losophy or religion which shall be powerful enough to 
redeem their country from idolatry and moral death 
as well as raise themselves from darkness to ligiit. 
Some of this sort are to be found among the nobles and 
senators themselves, — a few among the very dregs of 
the people, but most among those who, securing for 
themselves competence and independence by their own 
labor in some of the useful arts, and growing tnoughtful 
and intelligent with their labor, understand in some de¬ 
gree, which others do not, what life is for and what they 
are for, and hail with joy truths which commend them¬ 
selves to both their reason and their affections. It is 
out of these, the very best blood of Rome, that our 
Christians are made. They are, in intelligence and 
virtue, the very bone and muscle of the capital, and of 
our two millions constitute no mean proportion,—large 
enough to rule and control the whole, should they ever 
choose to put forth their power. It is among these that 
the Christian preachers aim to spread their doctrines, 
and when they shall all, or in their greater part, be con¬ 
verted, as, judging of the future by the past and pres¬ 
ent, will happen in no long time, Rome will be safe and 
the empire safe. For it needs, I am persuaded, for 
Rome to be as pure as she is great, to be eternal in her 
dominion, and then the civilizer and saviour of the 
whole world. O, glorious age ! — not remote — when 
truth shall wield the sceptre in CjEsar’s seat, and subject 
nations of the earth no longer come up to Rome to be¬ 
hold and copy her vices, but to hear the law and be 
imbued with the doctrine of Christ, so bearing back to 
the remotest province precious seed, there to be planted 


65 


A U R E L I A N . 


and spring up and bear fruit, filling the earth with 
beauty and fragrance. 

These things, Fausta, in answer to the questions at 
the close of your letter, which betray just such an in¬ 
terest in the subject which engrosses me, as it gives me 
pleasure to witness. 

I have before mentioned the completion of Aurelian’s 
Temple of the Sun and the proposed dedication. This 
august ceremony is appointed for tomorrow, and this 
evening we are bidden to the gardens of Sallust, where 
is to be all the rank and beauty of Rome. 0 that thou, 
Fausta, couldst he there ! 

I have been, I have seen, I have supped, I have re¬ 
turned ; and again seated at my table beneath the pro¬ 
tecting arm of my chosen divinity, I take my pen, and, 
by a few magic flourishes and marks, cause you, a 
thousand leagues away, to see and hear what I have 
seen and heard. 

Accompanied by Portia and Julia, I was within the 
palace of the Emperor early enough to enjoy the com¬ 
pany of Aurelian and Livia before the rest of the world 
was there. We were carried to the more private apart¬ 
ments of the Empress, where it is her custom to receive 
those whose friendship she values most highly. They 
are in that part of the palace which has undergone no 
alterations since it was the residence of the great histo¬ 
rian, but shines in all the lustre of a taste and an art 
that adorned a more accomplished age than our own 
Especially, it seems to me, in the graceful disposition of 
the interiors of their paluces, and the combined richness 


A T’ R E L I A N. 


69 


and appropriateness of the art lavished upon them, did 
the genius of the days of Hadrian and Vespasian sur¬ 
pass the present. Not that I defend all that that genius 
adopted and immortalized. It was not seldom licentious 
and gross in its conceptions, however unrivalled in the 
art and science by which they were made to glow upon 
the walls, or actually speak and move in marble or 
brass. In the favorite apartment of Livia, into which 
we were now admitted, perfect in its forms and propor¬ 
tions, the walls and ceilings are covered with the story 
of Leda, wrought with an effect of drawing and color, 
of which the present times afford no example. The 
well-known Greek, Polymnestes, was the artist. And 
this room in all its embellishments is chaste and cold 
compared with others, whose subjects were furnished 
to the painter by the profligate master himself. 

The room of Leda, as it is termed, is—but how beau¬ 
tiful it is I cannot tell. Words paint poorly to the ey*^. 
Believe it not less beautiful, nor less exquisitely adorned 
with all that woman loves most, hangings, carpets an 1 
couches, than any in the palace of Gracchus or Zenobi i. 
It was here we found Aurelian and Livia, and his niece 
Aurelia. The Emperor, habited in silken robes richly 
wrought with gold, the inseparable sword at his side, 
from which, at the expense of whatever incongruity, he 
never parts—advanced to the door to receive us, saying, 

‘ I am happy that the mildness of this autumn day 
permits this pleasure, to see the mother of the Pisos 
beneath my roof. It is rare nowadays that Rome sees 
her abroad.’ 

‘ Save to the palace of Aurelian,’ replied my mother 
1 now. as is well known, never move beyond the ore- 


70 


A U R E L I A N. 


ciacts of my own dwelling. Since the captivity and 
death of your former companion in arms, my great hus¬ 
band, Cneius Piso, the widow’s hearth has been my 
hall of state, these widow’s weeds my only robes. But 
it must be more than private grief, and more than the 
storms of autumn or of winter, that would keep me 
back when it is Aurelian who bids to the feast.’ 

‘ We owe you many thanks,’ replied the Emperor. 
‘Would that the loyalty of the parents were inherited 
by the children casting towards me, as he saluted me 
at the same time, a look which seemed to say that he 
was partly serious, if partly in jest. After mutual in 
quiries and salutations, we were soon seated upon 
couches beneath a blaze of light which, from the centre 
of the apartment, darted its brightness, as it had been 
the sun itself, to every part of the room. 

‘ It is no light sorrow to a mother’s heart,’ said Portia, 
‘ to know that her two sons, and her only sons, are, one 
the open enemy of his country, the other—what shall 
I term you, Lucius?—an innovator upon her ancient 
institutions ; and while he believes and calls himself— 
sincerely, I doubt not — the friend of his country, is in 
truth, as every good Roman would say — not an enemy, 
my son, I cannot use that word, but as it were — an un¬ 
conscious injurer. Would that the conqueror of the 
world had power to conquer this boy’s will ! ’ 

‘ Aurelian, my mother,’ I replied, ‘ did he possess the 
power, would hesitate to use it in such a cause. Bui 
it is easy to see that it would demand infinitely more 
power to change one honest mind than to subdue evea 
the w )rld by the sv ord.’ 


A U R E LI A N . 


71 


Aurelian for a brief moment looked as if he had re¬ 
ceived a personal affront. 

‘ How say you,’ said he, ‘ demands it more power to 
change one mind than conquer a world ? Methinks it 
might be done with something less. My soldiers often 
maintain with violence a certain opinion ; but I find it 
not difficult to cause them to let it go, and take mine in 
its place. The arguments I use never fail.’ 

‘ That may be,’ I replied, ‘ in matters of little moment. 
Even in these however, is it not plain, Aurelian, that 
you cause them not to let go their opinion, but merely 
to suppress it, or affect to change it? Your power may 
compel them either to silence, or to an assertion of the 
very contrary of what they but just before had declared 
as their belief, but it cannot alter their minds. That is 
to be done by reason only, not by force.’ 

‘ By reason first,’ answered the emperor ; ‘ but if that 
fail, then by force. The ignorant, and the presumptu¬ 
ous, and the mischievous, must be dealt with as we deal 
with children. If we argue with them, it is a favor. 
It is our right, as it is better, to command and compel.’ 

‘ Only establish it that such and such are ignorant, 
and erroneous, and presumptuous, and I allow that it 
would be right to silence them. But that is the very 
difficulty in the case. How are we to know that they, 
who think differently from ourselves, are ignorant or 
erroneous ? Surely the fact of the difference is not 
satisfactory proof.’ 

‘ They,’ rejoined Aurelian, ‘ who depart from a cer¬ 
tain standard in art are said to err. The thing in this 
case is of no consequence to any, therefore no punish¬ 
ment ensues. So there is a standard of religion in the 


A U R E L I A N . 


V2 


State, and they who depart from it may be said to err. 
But, as religion is essential to the State, they who err 
should be brought back, by whatever application of force, 
and compelled to conform to the standard.’ 

‘ In what sense,’ said Portia, ‘ can common and igno¬ 
rant people be regarded as fit judges of what constitutes, 
or does not constitute, a true religion ? It is a subject 
level scarce to philosophers. If, indeed, the gods should 
vouchsafe to descend to earth and converse with men, 
and in that manner teach some new truth, then anyone, 
possessed of eyes and ears, might receive it, and. retain 
it without presumption. Nay, he could not but do so ; 
but not otherwise.’ 

‘ Now have you stated,’ said I, ‘ that which consti¬ 
tutes the precise case of Christianity. They who re¬ 
ceived Christianity in the first instance, did it not by 
balancing against each other such refined arguments as 
philosophers use. They were simply judges of matters 
of fact — of what their eyes beheld, and their ears 
heard. God did vouchsafe to descend to earth, and, by 
his messenger,converse with men, and teach new truth. 
All that men had then to do was this, to see whether 
the evidence was sufficient that it was a God speaking ; 
and that being made plain, to listen and record. And 
at this day, all that is to be done is to inquire whether 
the record be true. If the record be a well-authentica¬ 
ted one of what the mouth of God spoke, it is then 
adopted as the code of religious truth. As for what the 
word contains — it requires no acute intellect to judge 
concerning it — a child may understand it all.’ 

‘ Truly,’ replied Portia, ‘ this agrees but ill with what 
I have heard and behoved concerning Christianity. I 


A U R E L I A N. 


73 


has ever been set forth as a thing full of darkness and 
mystery which it requires the most vigorous powers to 
penetrate and comprehend.’ 

‘ So has it ever been presented to me,’ added the Em 
peror. ‘ I have conceived it to be but some new form 
of Plato’s dreams, neither more clear in itself, nor 
promising to be of more use to mankind. So, if I err 
not, the learned Porphyrius has stated it.’ 

‘ A good fact,’ here interposed Julia, ‘ is worth more 
in this argument than the learning of the most learn¬ 
ed. • Is it not sufficient proof, Aurelian, that Christiani¬ 
ty is somewhat sufficiently plain and easy, that women 
are able to receive it so readily ? Take me as an 
unanswerable argument on the side of Piso.’ ■ 

‘ The women of Palmyra,’ replied the Emperor, ‘ as 1 
have good reason to know, are more than the men of 
other climes. She who reads Plato and the last essays 
of Plotinus, of a morning, seated idly beneath the 
shadow of some spreading beech, just as a Roman girl 
would the last child’s story of Spurius about father Ti¬ 
ber and the Milvian Bridge, is not to be received in 
this question as but a woman, with a woman’s powers 
of judgment. When the women of Rome receive their 
faith as easily as you do, then may it be held as an 
argument for its simplicity. But let us now break off 
the thread of this discourse, too severe for the occa¬ 
sion, and mingle with our other friends, who by this 
must be arrived.’ 

So, with these words, we left the apartment wnere we 
had been sitting, the Emperor having upon one side 
Po/tia, and on the other Livia, and moved toward the 

7 VOL. I. 


74 


A U R E L I A N . 


great central rooms of the palace, wheie guests are en¬ 
tertained, and the imperial banquets held. 

The company was not numerous : it was rather re¬ 
markable for its selectness. Among others not less dis¬ 
tinguished, there were the venerable Tacitus, the con¬ 
sul Capitolinus, Marcellinus the senator, the prefect 
Varus, the priest Fronto, the generals Probus and 
Mucapor, and a few others of the military favorites of 
Aurelian. 

Of the conversation at supper, I remember little or 
nothing, only that it was free and light, each seeming 
to enjoy himself and the companion who reclined next 
to him. Aurelian, with a condescending grace, which 
no one knows how better to assume than he, urged the 
wine upon his friends, as they appeared occasionally to 
forget it, offering frequently some new and unheard of 
kind, brought from Asia, Greece, or Africa, and which 
he would exalt to the skies for its flavor. More than 
once did he, as he is wont to do in his sportive mood, 
deceive us ; for, calling upon us to fill our goblets with 
what he described as a liquor surpassing all of Italy, 
and which might serve for Hebe to pour out for the 
gods, and requiring us to drink it off in honor of Bac¬ 
chus, Pan, or Ceres, we found, upon lifting our cups to 
drain them, that they had been charged with some col¬ 
ored and perfumed medicament more sour or bitter than 
the worst compound of the apothecary, or than massican 
overheated in the vats. These sallies, coming from the 
master of the world, were sure to be well received ; his 
satellites, of whom not a few, even on this occasion, were 
near him, being ready to die with excess of laughter, — 
the attendant slaves catching the jest, and enjoying i 


A U R E I A N . 


75 


(vith noisy vociferation. I laughed with the rest, for it 
seems wise to propitiate, by any act not absolutely base 
one, whose ambitious and cruel nature, unless soothed 
and appeased by such offerings, is so prone to reveal 
itself in deeds of darkness. 

When the feast was nearly ended, and the attending 
slaves were employed in loading it for the last time 
with fruits, olives, and confections, a troop of eunuchs, 
richly habited, entered the apartment to the sound of 
flutes and horns, bearing upon a platter of gold an im¬ 
mense bowl or vase of the same m.aterial, filled to the 
brim with wine, which they placed in the centre of the 
table, and then, at the command of the Emperor, with a 
ladle of the same precious material and ornamented 
with gems, served out the wine to the company. At 
first, as the glittering pageant advanced, astonishment 
kept us mute, and caused us involuntarily to rise from 
our couches to watch the ceremony of introducing it, 
and fixing it in Its appointed place. For never before, 
in Rome, had there been seen, I am sure, a golden ves¬ 
sel of such size, or wrought with art so marvellous. 
The language of wonder and pleasure was heard, on 
every side, from every mouth. Even Livia and Julia, 
who in Palmyra had been used to the goblets and wine- 
cups of the Eastern Demetrius, showed amazement, not 
less than the others, at a magnificence and a beauty 
that surpassed all experience, and all conception. Just 
above where the bowl was placed, hung the principal 
light, by which the table and the apartment were illu¬ 
minated, which, falling in floods upon the wrought 
or polished metal and the thickly strewed diamonds, 
caused it to blaze with a splendor which the eyes could 


76 


A U R E L I A N . 


hardly bear, and, till accustomed to it, prevented us 
from minutely examining the sculpture, that, with 
lavish profusion and consummate art, glowed and burn¬ 
ed upon the pedestal, the swelling sides, the rim and 
handles of the vase, and covered the broad and golden 
plain upon which it stood. I, happily, was near it. be¬ 
ing seated opposite Aurelian, and on the inner side ol 
the table, which, as the custom now is, was of the form 
of a bent bow, so that I could study at my leisure the 
histories and fables that were wrought over its whole 
surface. Julia and Livia, being also near it on the 
other side of the table, were in the same manner wholly 
absorbed in the same agreeable task. 

Livia, being quite carried out of herself by this sud¬ 
den and unexpected splendor — having evidently no 
knowledge of its approach — like a girl as she still is, 
in her natural, unpremeditated movements, rose from 
her couch and eagerly bent forward toward the vase, 
the better to scan its beauties, saying, as she did so, 

‘ The Emperor must himself stand answerable for all 
breaches of order under circumstances like these. Good 
friends, let all, who will, freely approach, and, leaving 
for a moment that of Bacchus, drink at the fountain of 
Beauty.’ Whereupon all, w'ho were so disposed, gath¬ 
ered round the centre of the table. 

‘ This,’ said Varus, ‘ both for size, and the perfect art 
lavished upon it, surpasses the glories fabled of the 
buckler of Minerva, whose fame has reached us.’ 

‘ You say right; it does so,’ said the Emperor ‘ That 
dish of Vitellius was inferior in workmanship, as it was 
less in weight and size than this, which, before vou all 


AU RE LIAN. 


77 


I here name “The Cup of Livia.” Let us fill again 
from it, and drink to the Empress of the world.’ 

All sprang in eager haste to comply with a command 
that carried with it its own enforcement. 

‘ Whatever,’ continued the Emperor, when our cups 
had been drained, ‘ may have been the condition of art 
in other branches of it, in the time of that Emperor, 
there was no one then whose power over the metals, 
or whose knowledge of forms, was comparable with that 
of our own Demetrius ; for this, be it known, is the 
sole work of the Roman — and yet, to speak more tru¬ 
ly, it must be said the Greek — Demetrius, aided by 
his brother from the East, who is now wtth him. Let 
the music cease ; we need that disturbance no more ; 
and call in the brothers Demetrius. These are men 
who honor any age, and any presence.’ 

The brothers soon entered ; and never were princes 
or ambassadors greeted with higher honor. All seemed 
to contend which should say the most flattering and 
agreeable thing. ‘ Slaves,’ cried the Emperor, ‘ a couch 
and cups for the Demetrii.’ 

The brothers received all this courtesy with the na¬ 
tive ease and dignity which ever accompany true 
genius. There was no offensive boldness, or presu¬ 
ming vanity, but neither was there any shrinking cow¬ 
ardice nor timidity. They felt that they were men, not 
less distinguished by the gods, than many or most of 
those, in whose presence they were, and they were suf¬ 
ficient to themselves. The Roman Demetrius resem¬ 
bles much his brother of Palmyra, but, in both form and 
countenance, possesses beauty of a higher order, His 

7* VOL. I 


8 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


lOok is contemplative ard inward ; his counten ince 
pale and yet dark ; his features regular and exactly 
shaped, like a Greek statue ; his hair short and black ; 
his dress, as was that of him of Palmyra, of the rich- 
est stuffs, showing that wealth had become their re* 
ward as well as fame. 

‘ Let us,’ cried the Emperor, ‘ in full cups, drawr. 
from the Livian fount, do honor to ourselves, and the 
arts, by drinking to the health of Demetrius of Palmyra, 
and Demetrius of Rome.’ Every cup was filled, and 
drained. ‘ We owe you thanks,’ then added Aurelian, 
‘ that you have completed this great work at the time 
promised ; though I fear it has been to your own cost, 
for the paleness of your cheeks speaks not of health.’ 

‘ The work,’ replied the Roman Demetrius, ‘ could 
not have been completed but for the timely and effectu¬ 
al aid of my Eastern brother, to whose learned hand, 
quicker in its execution than my own, you are indebted 
for the greater part of the sculptures, upon both the bowl 
and dish.’ 

‘ It is true, noble Emperor,’ said the impetuous brother, 
‘ my hand is the quicker of the two, and in some parts 
of this work, especially in whatever pertains to the 
East, and to the forms of building or of vegetation, or 
costume seen chiefly or only there, my knowledge was 
perhaps more exact and minute than his ; but, let it be 
received, that the head that could design these forms 
and conceive and arrange these histories, and these 
graceful ornaments — to my mind more fruitful of gen¬ 
ius than all else — observe you them ? have you scan, 
ned them all ? — belongs to no other than Demetrius oi 
Rome. In my whole hand, there resides not the skill 


A U R E LI A N. 


79 


fhat is lodged in one uf his fingers ;—nor, in my whole 
head, the power that lies behind one of his eyes.’ 

The enthusiasm of the Eastern brother called up a 
smile upon the faces of all, and a blush upon the white 
cheek of the Roman. 

‘My brother is younger than I,’ he said, ‘and his 
blood runs quicker. All that he says, though it be a 
picture of the truest heart ever lodged in man, is yet to 
be taken with abatement. But for him, this work 
would have been far below its present merit. Let me 
ask you especially to mark the broad border, where is 
set forth the late triumph, and ambassadors, captives, 
and animals of alkparts of the earth, especially of the 
East, are seen in their appropriate forms and habits. 
That is all from the chisel of my brother. Behold 
here ’—and rising he approached the vase, and vast as 
it was, by a touch, so was it constructed, turned it 
round—‘behold here, where is figured the Great Queen 
of— ’ ; in the enthusiasm of art, he had forgotten for a 
moment to whom he was speaking ; for at that instant 
his eye fell upon the countenance of Julia, who stood 
near him, — while hers at the same moment caught the 
regal form of Zenobia, bent beneath the weight of her 
golden chains — and which he saw cast down by an 
uncontrollable grief. He paused, confused and grieved 
— saying, as he turned back the vase, ‘ Ah me ! cruel 
and indiscreet ! Pardon me, noble ladies ! and yet I 
deserve it not.’ 

‘ Go on, go on, Demetrius,’ said Julia, assuming l 
cheerful air. ‘ You offend me not. The course of Em¬ 
pire must have its way ; individuals are but emmets in 
the path. I am now used to this, believe me. It is fo 


BO 


A U R E L I A N. 


you rather, and the rest, to forgive in me a sudden 
weakness.’ 

Demetrius, thus commanded, resumed, and then with 
minuteness, with much learning and eloquence, dis¬ 
coursed successively upon the histories, or emblematic 
devices, of this the chief work of his hands. All were 
sorry when he ceased. 

‘ To what you have overlooked,’ said Aurelian, as he 
paused, ‘ must I call you back, seeing it is that part of 
the work which I most esteem, and in which at this 
moment I and all, 1 trust, are most interested — the 
sculptures upon the platter ; which represent the new 
temple and ceremonies of the dedication, which lO-mor- 
row we celebrate.’ 

‘ Of this,’ replied Demetrius, ‘ I said less, because 
perhaps the work is inferior, having been committed, 
our time being short, to the hands of a pupil — a pupil, 
however, I beg to say, who, if the Divine Providence 
spare him, will one day, and that not a remote one, cast 
a shadow upon his teachers.’ 

‘ That will he,’ said the brother ; ‘ Flaccus is full of 
the truest inspiration.’ 

‘ But to the dedication — the dedication,’ interrupted 
the hoarse voice of Pronto. 

Demetrius started, and shrunk backward a step at 
that sound, but instantly recovered himself, and read 
into an intelligible language many of the otherwise ob¬ 
scure and learned details of the work. As he ended, 
the Emperor said, 

‘ We thank you, Demetrius, for your learned lecture, 
which has given a new value to your labors And now 


A U R E I. I A N . 


SI 


while it ib in my mind, let me bespeak, as soor as 
leisure and inclination shall serve, a silver statue, gilded, 
of Apollo, for the great altar, which to-morrow will 
scarce be irraced with such a one as will agree with the 
temple and its other ornaments.’ 

Demetrius, as this was uttered, again started, and his 
countenance became of a deadly paleness. He hesitated 
a moment, as if studying how to order his words so as to 
express least offensively an offensive truth. On the in¬ 
stant, I suspected what the truth was ; but I was wholly 
unprepared for it. I had received no intimation of 
such a thing. 

‘Great Emperor,’ he began, ‘ I am sorry to say — 
and yet not sorry—that I cannot now, as once, labor for 
the decoration of the temples and their worship. I 
am —’ 

‘ Ye gods of Rome !—’ cried Pronto. 

‘ Peace,’ said the Empercr ; ‘ let him be heard. How 
say you ? ’ 

‘ I am now a Christian ; and I hold it not lawful to 
bestow my power and skill in the workmanship of gods, 
in whom I believe not, and thus become the instrument 
of an erroneous faith in others.’ 

This was uttered firmly, but with modesty. The 
countenance of the Emperor was overclouded for a mo¬ 
ment. But it partially cleared up again, as he said, 

‘ I lay not, Demetrius, the least constraint upon you. 
The four years that I have held this power in Rome 
have been years of freedom to my people in this re. 
sped. Whether I have done well in that, for our city 
and the empire, many would doubt. I almost doubt 
my "elf.' 


32 


A U R E L I A N. 


‘ That would they, by Hercules,’ said the soft 
voice of Varus just at my ear, and intended chiefly 
for me. 

‘ My brother,’ said Demetrius, ‘ will be happy to ex¬ 
ecute for the Emperor, the work which he has been 
pleased to ask of me. He remains steadfast in the faith 
m which he was reared ; the popular faith of Athens.’ 

‘ Apollo,’ said Demetrius of Palmyra, ‘ is my especial 
favorite among all the gods, and of him have I wrought 
more statues in silver, gold, or ivory, or of these vari¬ 
ously and curiously combined, than of all the others. If 
I should be honored in this labor, I should request to 
be permitted to adopt the marble image, now standing 
in the baths of Caracalla, and once, it is said, the chief 
wonder of Otho’s palace of wonders, as a model after 
which, with some deviations, to mould it. I think I 
could make that, that should satisfy Aurelian and Rome.’ 

‘ Do it, do it,’ said the Emperor, ‘ and let it be seen, 
that the worshipper of his country’s gods is not behind 
him, who denies them, in his power to do them honor.’ 

‘ I shall not sleep,’ said the artist, ‘ till I have made a 
model, in wax at least, of what at this moment presents 
itself to my imagination.’ Saying which, with little 
ceremony — as if the Empire depended upon his reach¬ 
ing, on the instant, his chalk and wax, and to the infi¬ 
nite amusement of the company — he rose and darted 
from the apartment, the slaves making way, as for a 
missile that it might be dangerous to obstruct. 

‘ But in what way,’ said Aurelian, turning to the 
elder Demetrius, ‘ have you been wrought upon to a- 
bandon the time-honored religion of Rome ? Methinks 
the whole world is becoming of this persuasion.’ 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


83 


‘ If I may speak freely — ’ 

‘ With utmost freedom,’ said Aurelian. 

‘ I may then say, that ever since the power to reflect 
upon matters so deep and high had been mine, I had 
first doubted the truth of the popular religion, and then 
soon rejected it, as what brought to me neither comfort 
nor hope, and was also burdened with things essentially 
incredible and monstrous. For many years, many wea¬ 
ry years — for the mind demands something positive in 
this quarter, it cannot remain in suspense, and vacant — 
I was without belief. Why it was so long, before I 
turned to the Christians, I know not; unless, because of 
the reports which were so common to their disadvan¬ 
tage, and the danger which has so often attended a pro¬ 
fession of their faith. At length, in a fortunate hour, 
there fell into rny hands the sacred books of the Chris¬ 
tians ; and I needed little besides to show me, that 
theirs is a true and almighty faith, and that all that is 
current in the city to its dishonor is false and calum¬ 
nious. I am now happy, not only as an artist and a 
Roman, but as a man and an immortal.’ 

‘ You speak earnestly,’ said Aurelian. 

‘ I feel so,’ replied Demetrius ; a generous glow light¬ 
ing up his pale countenance. 

‘ Would,’ rejoined the Emperor, ‘ that some of the 
zeal of these Christians might be infused into the slug¬ 
gish spirits of our own people. The ancient faith suf¬ 
fers through neglect, and the prevailing impiety of those 
who are its disciples.’ 

‘ May it not rather be,’ said Fronto, ‘ that the ancient 
religiou'of the State, having so long been neglected by 
those who are its appointed guardians, to the extent tha' 


S4 


A U ll U L I A N . 


-^ven Judaisn., and now Christianiiy—which are but 
disguised forms of Atheism — have been allowed to in 
sinuate, and intrench themselves in the Empire; the 
gods, now in anger, turn away from us, who have been 
so unfaithful to ourselves ; and thus this plausible im¬ 
piety is permitted to commit its havocs. I believe the 
gods are ever faithful to the faithful.’ 

‘ What good citizen, too,’ added Varus, ‘ but must la¬ 
ment to witness the undermining, and supplanting of 
those venerable forms, under which this universal em¬ 
pire has grown to its present height of power ? He is 
scarcely a Roman who denies the gods of Rome, how¬ 
ever observant he may be of her laws and other insti¬ 
tutions. Religion is her greatest law.’ 

‘ These are hard questions,’ said the Emperor. ‘ For, 
know you not, that some of our noblest, and fairest, and 
most beloved, have written themselves followers of this 
Gallilean God ? How can we deal sharply with a peo¬ 
ple, at whose head stands the chief of the noble house of 
the Pisos, and a princess of the blood of Palmyra ? ’ 

Although Aurelian uttered these words in a manner 
almost sportive to the careless ear, yet I confess myself 
to have noticed at the moment, an expression of the 
countenance, and a tone in the voice, which gave me 
uneasiness. I was about to speak, when the vener¬ 
able Tacitus addressed the Emperor, and said, 

‘ I can never think it wise to interfere with violence 
in the naatter of men’s worship. It is impossible, I be¬ 
lieve, to compel mankind to receive any one institution 
of religon, because different tribes of men, different by 
nature and by education, will and do demand,'not the 
same, but different forms of belief and v orship. Why 


A U RE LI AN. 


85 


should they be alike in this, while they separate so 
widely in oth^r matters ? and can it be a more hopeful 
enterprise to oblige them to submit to the same rules ir 
their religion, than it would be to compel them to feed 
on the same food, and use the same forms of language 
or dress ? I know that former emperors have thought 
and acted differently. They have deemed it a possible 
thing to restore the ancient unity of worship, by punish¬ 
ing with severity, by destroying the lives even, of such 
as should dare to think for themselves. But their con¬ 
duct is not to be defended, either as right in itself or best 
for the state. It has not been just or wise, as policy. For 
is it not evident, how oppression of those who believe 
themselves to be possessed of truth important to man¬ 
kind, serves but to bind them the more closely to their 
opinions ? Are they, for a little suffering, to show them¬ 
selves such cowards as to desert their own convictions, 
and prove false to the interests of multitudes ? Rather, 
say they, let us rejoice, in such a cause, to bear reproach. 
This is the language of our nature. Nay, such persons 
come to prize suffering, to make it a matter of pride and 
boasting. Their rank among themselves is, by and by, 
determined by the readiness with which they offer 
themselves as sacrifices for truth and God. Are such 
persons to be deterred by threats, or the actual infliction 
of punishment ?’ 

‘ The error has been,’ here said the evil-boding 
Fronto, ‘ that the infliction of punishment went not to 
the extent that is indispensable to the success of such a 
work. The noble Piso will excuse me ; we are but 
dealing with abstractions- Oppress those who are in 

8 VOL. I. 


Sfi 


A U II E L I A N . 


error, only to a certain point, not extreme, and it is most 
true they cling the closer to their error. We see this 
in the punishment of children. Their obstinacy and 
pride are increased, by a suffering which is slight, and 
which seems to say to the parent, ‘ He is too timid, 
weak, or loving, to inflict more.’ So too with our slaves. 
Whose slaves ever rose a second time against the 
master’s authority, whose first offence, however slight, 
was met, not by words or lashes, but by racks and 
the cross ? ’ 

‘ Nay, good Pronto, hold ; your zeal for the gods 
bears you away beyond the bounds of courtesy.’ 

‘ Forgive me then, great sovereign, and you who 
are here — if you may; but neither time nor place 
shall deter me, a minister of the great god of light, from 
asserting the principles upon which his worship rests, 
and, as I deem, the Empire itself. Under Decius, had 
true Romans sat on the tribunals; had no hearts,too soft 
for such offices, turned traitors to the head ; had no 
accursed spirit of avarice received the bribes which 
procured security to individuals, families, and commu¬ 
nities ; had there been no commutations of punishment, 
then — ’ 

‘ Peace, I say. Pronto ; thou marrest the spirit of 
the hour. How came we thus again to this point ? 
Such questions are for the Council-room or the Sen¬ 
ate. Yet, truth to say, so stirred seems the mind of 
this whole people in the matter, that, in battle, one may 
as well escape from the din of clashing arms, or the 
groans of the dying, as, in Rome, avoid this argument. 
Nay, by my sword, not a voice can I hear, either ap¬ 
plauding, disputing, or condemning, since I have set on 


A U R E L I A N . 


87 


foot this new war in the East. Once, the city would 
have rung with acclamations, that an army was gather¬ 
ing for such an enterprise. Now, it seems quite for¬ 
gotten that Valerian once fell, or that, late though it be, 
he ought to be avenged. This Jewish and Christian 
argument fills all heads, and clamors on every tongue. 
Come, let us shake off this daemon in a new cup, and 
drink deep to the revenge of Valerian.’ 

‘ And of the gods,’ ejaculated Pronto, as he lifted the 
■goblet to his lips. 

‘ There again ? ’ quickly and sharply demanded Au- 
relian, bending his dark brows upon the offender. 

‘ Doubtless,’ said Portia, ‘ he means well, though 
over zealous, and rash in speech. His heart, I am sure, 
seconds not the cruel language of his tongue. So at 
least I will believe ; and, in the meantime, hope, that the 
zeal he has displayed for the ancient religion of our 
country, may not be without its use upon some pres¬ 
ent, wh®, with what I trust will prove a brief truancy, 
have wandered from their household gods, and the 
temples of their fathers.’ 

‘ May the gods grant it,’ added Livia ; ‘ and restore 
the harmony, which should reign in our families, and in 
the capital. Life is over brief to be passed in quarrel. 
Now let us abandon our cups. Sir Christian Piso ! 
lead me to the gardens, and let the others follow as they 
may our good example.’ 

The gardens we found, as we passed from the palace, 
to be most brilliantly illuminated with lamps of every 
form and hue. We seemed suddenly to have passed 
to another world, so dream-like was the effect of the 
multitudinous lights as they fell with white, red, lurid, 


es 


A U R E L I A N . 


or golden glare, upon bush or tre.5, grotto, statue, oi 
marble fountaia 

‘ Forget here, Lucius Piso,^ said the kind-hearted 
Livia, ‘ what you have just heard from the lips of that 
harsh bigot, the savage Fronto. Who could have 
looked for such madness ! Not again, if I possess the 
power men say I do, shall he sit at the table of Au- 
relian. Poor Julia too ! But see ! she walks with 
Tacitus. Wisdom and mercy are married in him, and 
both will shed comfort on her.’ 

‘ I cannot but lament,’ I replied, ‘ that a creature like 
Fronto should have won his way so far into the confi¬ 
dence of Aurelian. But 1 fear him not ; and do not be¬ 
lieve that he will have power to urge the Emperor to 
the adoption of measures, to which his own wisdom 
and native feelings must stand opposed. The rage of 
such men as Fronto, and the silent pity and scorn ot 
men immeasurably his superiors, we have now learn¬ 
ed to bear without complaint, though not without 
some inward suffering. To be shut out from the hearts 
of so many, who once ran to meet us on our approach ; 
nor only that, but to be held by them as impious and 
atheistical, monsters whom the earth is sick of, and 
whom the gods are besought to destroy — this is a part 
of 01 ] r burden which we feel to be heaviest. Heaven 
preserve to us the smiles, and the love of Livia.’ 

‘ Doubt not that they will ever be yours. But I trust 
that sentiments, like those of Tacitus, will bear sway in 
the councils of Aurelian, and that the prej'nt calm 
will not be disturbed.’ 

Thus conversing, we wandered on, beguiled by such 
talk, and the attractive splendors of the garden, till we 


A U R E L I A N . 


89 


found ourselves separated, apparently by some distance, 
from our other friends ; none passed us, and none met 
us. We had reached a remote and solitary spot, where 
fewer lamps had been hung, and the light was faint and 
unequal. Not sorry to be thus alone, we seated our¬ 
selves on the low pedestal of a group of statuary — once 
the favorite resort of the fair and false Terentia— whose 
forms could scarcely be defined, and which was envel¬ 
oped, at a few paces distant, with shrubs and flowers, 
forming a thin wall of partition between us and another 
walk, corresponding to the one we were in, but wind¬ 
ing away in a different direction. We had sat not 
long, either silent or conversing, ere our attention was 
caught by the sound of approaching voices, apparently 
in earnest discourse. A moment, and we knew them 
*0 be those of Fronto, and Aurelian. 

‘ By the gods, his life shall answer it,’ said Aurelian 
with vehemence, but with suppressed tones ; ‘ who but 
he was to observe the omens ? Was I to knew, that 
to-day is the Ides, and to-morrow the day after ? The 
rites must be postponed.’ 

‘ It were better not, in my judgment,’ said Fronto , 
‘ all the other signs are favorable. Never, Papirius as¬ 
sured me, did the sacred chickens seize so eagerly the 
crumbs. Many times, as he closely watched, did he 
observe them — which is rare — drop them from thc.-ir 
mouths overfilled. The times he has exactly recorded. 
A rite like this put off, when all Borne is in expecta¬ 
tion, would, in the opinion of all the world, be o’ a more 
unfavorable interpretation, 'han if more than the da} 
were against us.’ 

8"^ VOL. T. 


90 


A U R E LI A N . 


‘ You counsel well. Let it go on.’ 

‘ But to ensure a fortunate event, and jropitiate the 
gods, I would early, and before the august ceremonies, 
offer the most costly and acceptable sacrifice.’ 

‘ That were well also. In the prisons there are 
captives of Germany, of Gaul, of Egypt, and Palmy¬ 
ra. Take what and as many as you will. If we 
ever make sure of the favor of the gods, it is when we 
offer freely that which we hold at the highest price.’ 

‘ I would rather they were Christians,’ urged Pronto. 

‘ That cannot be,’ said Aurelian. ‘ I question if 
there be a Christian within the prison walls ; and, were 
there hundreds, it is not a criminal I would bring to 
the altar, I would as soon offer a diseased or ill-shaped 
bull.’ 

‘ But it were an easy matter to seize such as we 
might want. Not, 0 Aurelian, till this accursed race 
is exterminated, will the heavens smile as formerly 
upon our country. Why are the altars thus forsaken ?. 
Why are the temples no longer thronged as once ? Why 
do the great, and the rich, and the learned, silently 
withhold their aid, or openly scoff and jeer ? Why are 
our sanctuaries crowded only by the scum and refuse 
of the city ? ’ 

‘ I know not. Question me not thus.’ 

‘ Is not the reason palpable and gross to the dullest 
mind ? Is it not because of the daily growth of this 
blaspheming and atheistical crew, who, by horrid arts 
seduce the young, the timid, and above all the women, 
who ever draw the world with them, to join them in 
their unhallowed orgies, thus stripping the temples of 
their worshippers, and dragging the gods themselves 


A U K E L I A N . 


91 


from their seats ? Think you the gods look on with 
pleasure while their altars and temples are profaned or 
abandoned, and a religion, that denies them, rears itselt 
upon their ruins V 

‘ I know not. Say no more.’ 

‘ Is it possible, religion or the state should prosper, 
while he, who is not only Vicegerent of the gods. Uni¬ 
versal Monarch, but what is more, their sworn Pontifex 
Maximus, connives at the existence and dissemination 
of the most dangerous opinions — ’ 

‘ Thou liest.’ 

‘ Harboring even beneath the imperial roof, and 
feasting at the imperial table, the very heads and chief 
ministers of this black mischief—’ 

‘ Hold, I say. I swear by all the gods, known and 
unknown, that another word, and thy head shall an¬ 
swer it. Is my soul that of a lamb, that I need this 
stirring up to deeds of blood ? Am I so lame and back¬ 
ward, when the gods are to be defended, that I am to 
be thus charged ? Let the lion sleep when he will ; 
chafed too much, and he may spring and slay at ran 
dom. I love not the Christians, nor any who flout the 
gods and their worship — that thou knowest well. But 
I love Piso, Aurelia, and the divine Julia — that thou 
knowest as well. Now no more.’ 

‘ For my life,’ said Fronto, ‘ I hold it cheap, if I may 
but be faithful to my office and the gods.’ 

‘ I believe it, Fronto. The gods will reward thee. 
Let us on.’ 

In the earnestness of their talk they had paused, and 
stood just before us, being separated but by a thin screen 
of shrubs We continued rooted to our seats while this 


92 


A U R E L I A N . 


conversation went on, held there both by the impos¬ 
sibility of withdrawing without observation, and by a 
desire to hear—I confess it—what was thus in a man¬ 
ner forced upon me, and concerned so nearly, not only 
myself, but thousands of my fellow-Christians. 

When they were hidden from us by the winding of 
the path, we rose and turned toward the palace. 

‘ That savage !’ said Livia. ‘ How strange, that Au- 
relian, who knows so well how to subdue the world, 
should have so little power to shake off this reptile.’ 

‘ There is power enough,’ I replied ; ‘ but alas ! I fear 
the will is wanting. Superstition is as deep a principle 
in the breast of Aurelian as ambition and of that. Pronto 
is the most fitting high-priest. Aurelian places him at 
the head of religion in the state for those very qualities, 
whose fierce expression has now made us tremble. Let 
us hope that the Emperor will remain where he now is, 
in a position from which it seems Pronto is unable to 
dislodge him, and all will go well.’ 

We soon reached the palace, where, joining Julia and 
Portia, our chariot soon bore us to the Coelian Hill. 
Farewell. 


A U R E L 1 A N 


93 


LETTER IV. 

FROM PISO TO FAU3TA. 

I promised you, Fausta, before the news should reach 
you in any other way, to relate the occurrences and de¬ 
scribe the ceremonies of the day appointed for the dedi¬ 
cation of the new Temple of the Sun. 'The day has 
now passed, not without incidents of even painful inter¬ 
est to ourselves and therefore to you, and I sit down to 
fulfil my engagements. 

Vast preparations had been making for the occasion, 
for many days or even months preceding, and the day 
arose upon a city full of expectation of the shows, cere¬ 
monies, and games, that were to reward their long and 
patient waiting. For the season of the year the day 
was hot, unnaturally so ; and the sky filled with those 
massive clouds, piled like mountains of snow one upon 
another, which, while they both please the eye by their 
forms, and veil the fierce splendors of the sun, as they 
now and then sail across his face, at the same time por¬ 
tend wind and storm. All Rome was early astir. It 
was ushered in by the criers traversing the streets, and 
proclaiming the rites and spectacles of the day, what 
they were, and where to be witnessed, followed by troops 
of boys, imitating, in their grotesque ivay, the pompous 
declarations of the men of authority, not unfreque.itly 
drawing down upon their heads the curses and the 
batons of the insulted dignitaries. A troop of this sort 


D1 


A U R E L I A N . 


passed the windows of the room in which Julia and I 
were sitting at our morning meal. As the crier ended 
his proclamation, and the shouts of the applauding ur* 
chins died avvay, Milo, who is our attendant in prefer¬ 
ence to any and all others, observed, 

‘ That the fellow of a crier deserved to have his 
head beat about with his own rod, for coming round 
with his news not till after the greatest show of the day 
was over.’ 

‘ What mean you ? ’ I asked. ‘ Explain.’ 

‘ What should I mean,’ he replied, ‘ but the morning 
sacrifice at the temple.’ 

‘ And what so wonderful,’ said Julia, ‘ in a morning 
sacrifice ? The temples are open every morning, are 
they not ?’ 

‘ Yes, truly are they,’ rejoined Milo ; ‘ but not foi 
so great a purpose, nor witnessed by so great crowds. 
Curio wished me to have been there, and says nothing 
could have been more propitious. They died as the 
gods love to have them.’ 

‘ Was there no bellowing nor struggling, then ?’ said 
Julia. 

‘ Neither, Curio assures me ; but they met the knife 
of the priest as they would the sword of an enemy on 
the field of battle.’ 

‘ How say you ?’ said Julia, quickly, turning pale ; 
‘ do I hear aright, Milo, or are you mocking ? God for¬ 
bid that you should speak of a human sacrifice.’ 

‘ It is even so, mistress. And why should it not be 
so ? If the favor of the gods, upon whom we all depend, 
as the priests tell us, is to be purchased so well in nc 
other way, what is the life of one man, or of many, ia 


A U R E L I A N. 


95 


such a f’ause ? The great Gallienus, when his life had 
been less ordered than usual after the rules of tempe¬ 
rance and religion, used to make amends by a few cap¬ 
tives slain to Jupiter ; to which, doubtless, may be as¬ 
cribed his prosperous reign. But, as I was saying, 
there was, so Curio informed me at the market not 
long afterwards, a sacrifice, on the private altar of the 
temple, of ten captives. Their blood flowed just as the 
great god of the temple showed himself in the horizon. 
It would have done you good. Curio said, to see with 
what a hearty and dexterous zeal Fronto struck the 
knife into their hearts—for to no inferior minister would 
he delegate the sacred office.’ 

‘ Lucius,’ cried Julia, ‘ I thought that such offerings 
were now no more. Is it so, that superstition yet de¬ 
lights itself in the blood of murdered men ? ’ 

‘ It is just so,’ I was obliged to reply. ‘ With a peo¬ 
ple naturally more gentle and humane than we of Rome 
this custom would long ago have fallen into disuse. 
They would have easily found a way, as all people do, 
to conform their religious doctrine and offerings to their 
feelings and instincts. But the Romans, by nature and 
long training, lovers of blood, their country built upon 
the ruins of others, and cemented with blood— the taste 
for it is not easily eradicated. There are temples 
where human sacrifices have never ceased. Laws have 
restrained their frequency — have forbidden them, un¬ 
der heaviest penalties, unless permitted by the state—but 
these laws ever have been, and are now evaded ; and it 
is the settled purpose of Fronto, and others of his 
stamp, to restore to them their lost honors, and make 
them again, as they used to be, the chief rite in the 


96 


A TJ R E L I A N . 


worship ol the gods. I am not sorry, Julia, that youi 
doubts, though so painfully, have yet been so effectual¬ 
ly, removed.’ 

Julia had for some time blamed, as over-ardent, the 
zeal of the Christians. She had thought that the evil ot 
the existing superstitions was over-estimated,and that it 
were wiser to pursue a course of more moderation ; that 
a system that nourished such virtues as she found in 
Portia, in Tacitus, and others like them, could not be so 
corrupting in its power as the Christians were in the 
habit of representing it; that if we could succeed in sub¬ 
stituting Christianity quietly, without alienating the 
affections, or shocking too violently the prejudices, of the 
believers in the prevailing superstitions, our gain would 
be double. To this mode of arguing I knew she was 
impelled, by her love and almost reverence for Portia ; 
and how could I blame it, springing from such a cause ? 
I had, almost criminally, allowed her to blind herself in a 
way she never would have done, had her strong mind 
acted, as on other subjects, untrammelled and free. I 
was not sorry that Milo had brought before her mind a 
fact which, however revolting in its horror to such a 
nature as hers, could not but heal while it wounded. 

‘ Milo,’ said Julia, as I ended, ‘ say now that you 
have been jesting ; that this is a piece of wit with which 
you would begin in a suitable way an extraordinary 
day ; this is one of your Gallienus fictions.’ 

‘ Before the gods,’ replied Milo, ‘ I have told you the 
naked truth. But not the whole ; for Curio left me 
not till he had shown how each had died. Of the ten. 
but three, be averred, resisted, or died unwillingly. The 
three were Germans from beyond the Danube—brothers 


A U R E L I A N . 


97 


he said, who had long lain in prison till their bones 
were ready to start through the skin. Yet were they 
not ready to die. It seemed as if there were something 
they longea — more even than for life or freedom — to 
say; but they might as well have been dumb and 
tongueless, for none understood their barbarous jargon. 
When they found that their words were in vain, they 
wrung their hands in their wo, and cried out aloud in 
their agony. Then, however, at the stern voice of 
Frdnto, w'arning them of the hour, they ceased — em¬ 
braced each other, and received the fatal blow ; the 
others signified their pleasure at dying so, rather than 
to be thrown to wild beasts, or left to die by slow degrees 
within their dungeon’s walls. Two rejoiced that it was 
their fate to pour out their blood upon the altar of a god, 
and knelt devoutly before the uplifted knife of Fronto, 
Never, said Curio, was there a more fortunate offer 
ing. Aurelian heard the report of it with lively joy, 
and said that ‘now all would go well.’ Curio is a good 
friend of mine ; will it please you to hear these 
things from his own lips ?’ 

‘ No,’ said Julia ; ‘ I would hear no more. I have 
heard more than e'HOUgh. How needful, Lucius, if 
these things are so, that our Christian zeal abate 
not ! I see that this stern and bloody faith requires 
that they who would deal with it must carry their lives 
in their hand, ready to part with nothing so easily, if 
by so doing they can hew away one of the branches, 
or tear up one of the roots of this ancient and pernicious 
error. I blame not Probus longer — no, nor the wild 
rage of Macer.’ 

9 VOL. I. 


98 


A U R U L I A N . 


‘ Two, lady, of the captives were of Palmyra ; the 
Queen’s name and yours were last upon their lips.’ 

• Great God ! how retribution like a dark pursuing 
shadow hangs upon the steps of guilt ! Even here it 
seeks us. Alas, my mother ! Heaven grant that these 
things fall not upon your ears ! ’ 

Julia was greatly moved, and sat a long time si.ent, 
her face buried in her hands, and weeping. I motioned 
to Milo to withdraw and say no more. Upon Julia, al¬ 
though so innocent of all wrong — guiltless as an infant 
of the blame, whatever it may be, which the world fixes 
upon Zenobia — yet upon her, as heavily as upon her 
great mother, fall the sorrows, which, sooner or later, 
overtake those, who, for any purpose, in whatever de¬ 
gree selfish, have involved their fellow-creatures in 
useless suffering. Being part of the royal house, Julia 
feels that she must bear her portion of its burdens. 
Time alone can cure this grief. 

But you are waiting, with a woman’s impatient curi¬ 
osity, to hear of the dedication. 

At the appointed hour, we were at the palace of Au- 
relian on the Palatine, where a procession pompous as 
art, and rank, and numbers could make it, was formed, 
to move thence by a winding and distant way to the 
temple near the foot of the Quirinal Julia repaired 
with Portia to a place of observation near the temple — 
I to the palace, to join the company of the Emperor. Of 
the gorgeous magnificence of the procession I shall tell 
you nothing. It was in extent, and variety of pomp 
and costliness of decoration, a copy of that of the late 
triumph ; and went even beyond the captivating splen¬ 
dor of the example. Roman music —which is not thai 


A U R E L I A N. 


99 


of Palmyra —lent such charms as it could to our pas¬ 
sage through the streets to the temple, from a ihousamJ 
performers. 

As we drew near to the lofty fabric, I thought that 
no scene of such various beauty and magni/icence had 
ever met my eye. The temple itself is a work of un¬ 
rivalled art. In size it surpasses any other building of 
the same kind in Rome, and for excellence of workman¬ 
ship and purity of design, although it may fall below 
the standard of Hadrian’s age, yet, for a certain air of 
grandeur, and luxuriance of invention in its details, and 
lavish profusion of embellishment in gold and silver, no 
temple, nor other edifice, of any preceding age, ever per¬ 
haps resembled it. Its order is the Corinihian, of the 
Roman form, and the entire building is surrounded by 
its graceful columns, each composed of a single piece of 
marble. Upon the front, is wrought Apollo surrounded 
by the Hours. The western extremity is approached 
by a flight of steps, of the same breadth as the temple 
itself. At the eastern, there extends beyond the walls, 
to a distance equal to the length of the building, a mar¬ 
ble platform, upon which stands the altar of sacrifice, 
which is ascended by various flights of steps, some lit¬ 
tle more than a gently rising plain, up which the beasts 
are led that are destined to the altar. 

When this vast extent of wall and column, of the 
most dazzling brightness, came into view, everywhere 
covered, together with the surrounding lemples, palaces, 
and theatres, with a dense mass of human beings, of all 
climes and regions, dressed out in their richest attire — 
music from innumerable instruments filling the heavens 
with harmony — shouts of the proud and excited popu- 


fOO 


A U R E L i A N. 


lace, every few moments, and from different points, as 
Aurelian advanced, shaking the air with their thrilling 
din—added to, still further, by the neighing of horses, 
and the frequent blasts of the trumpet — the whole made 
more solemnly imposing by the vast masses of clouds 
which swept over the sky, now suddenly unveiling, and 
again eclipsing, the sun, the great god of this idolatry, 
and from which few could withdraw their gaze ;—when, 
at once, this all broke upon my eye and ear, I was like 
a child who, before, had never seen aught but his own 
village, and his own rural temple, in the effect wrought 
upon me, and the passiveness with which I abandoned 
myself to the sway of the s:'nses. Not one there, was 
more ravished than I was, by the outward circumstance 
and show. I thought of Rome’s thousand years, of her 
power, her greatness, and universal empire, and, for a 
moment, my step was not less proud than that of Au¬ 
relian. 

But, after that moment, when the senses had had 
their fill, when the eye had seen the glory, and the 
ear had fed upon the harmony and the praise, then I 
thought and felt very differently. Sorrow and compas¬ 
sion for these gay multitudes were at my heart ; pro¬ 
phetic forebodings of disaster, danger, and ruin to those, 
to whose sacred cause I had linked myself, made my 
tongue to falter in its speech, and my limbs to tremble. 
I thought that the superstition, that was upheld by the 
wealth and the power, whose manifestations were be¬ 
fore me, had its roots in the very centre of the earth — 
far too deep down for a few like myself ever to reach 
them. I was like one, whose last hope of life and es¬ 
cape is suddenly struck away. 


A U R E 1.1 A N. 


101 


I was aroused from these meditations, by our arri'^al 
at the eastern front of the temple. Between the iwo 
central columns, on a throne of gold and ivory, sat the 
Emperor of the world, surrounded by the senate, the 
colleges of augurs and haruspices, and by the priests of 
the various temples of the capital, all in their peculiar 
costume. Then, Fronto, the priest of the temple; 
standing at the altar, glittering in his white and golden 
robes like a messenger of light—when the crier had 
proclaimed that the hour of worship and sacrifice had 
come, and had commanded silence to be observed— 
bared his head, and, lifting his face up toward the sun, 
offered, in clear and sounding tones, the prayer of dedi¬ 
cation. As he came toward the close of his prayer, he, 
as is so usual, with loud and almost frantic cries, and 
importunate repetition, called upon all the gods to hear 
him, and then, with appropriate names and praises, in¬ 
voked the Father of gods and men to be present. 

Just as he had thus solemnly invoked Jupiter by 
name, and was about to call upon the other gods in the 
same manner, the clouds, which had been deepening and 
darkening, suddenly obscured the sun ; a distant peal 
of thunder rolled along the heavens; and, at the same 
moment, from out the dark recesses of the temple, a 
voice of preternatural power came forth, procla?ming, 
so that the whole multitude heard the words,—‘ God is 
but one ; the King eternal, immortal, invisible.’ 

It is impossible to describe the horror that seized those 
multitudes. Many cried out with fear, and earh seem¬ 
ed to shrink behind the other. Paleness sat up )n every 
face. The priest paused as if struck by a povei from 
9 * 


VOL T 


102 


A U R E L I A N . 


above. Even the brazen Pronto was appalled. Aure« 
ian leaped from his seat, and by his countenance, white 
and awe-struck, showed that to him it came as a voice 
from ihe gods. He spoke not; but stood gazing at the 
dark entrance into the temple, from which the sound 
had come. Pronto hastily approached him, and whis¬ 
pering but one word as it were into his ear, the Empe¬ 
ror started ; the spell that bound him was dissolved ; 
and, recovering himself—making indeed as though a 
very different feeling had possessed him — cried out in 
fierce tones to his guards, 

‘ Search the temple ; some miscreant, hid away among 
the columns, profanes thus the worship and the place. 
Seize him, and drag him forth to instant death.’ 

The guards of the Emperor, and the servants of the 
temple, rushed in at that bidding, and searched in every 
part the interior of the building. They soon emerged, 
saying that the search was fruitless. The temple, in 
all its aisles and apartments, was empty. 

The ceremonies, quiet being again restored, then went 
on. Twelve bulls, of purest white and of perfect forms, 
their horns bound about with fillets, were now led 
the servants of the temple up the marble steps to the 
front of the altar, where stood the cultrarii and haruspi- 
ces, ready to slay them and examine their entrails. The 
omens, — as gathered by the eyes of all from the fierce 
stragglings and bellowings of the animals, as they were 
led toward the place of sacrifice, some even escapino- 
from the hands of those who had the management ot 
ihem, and from the violent and convulsive throes of others 
as the blow fell upon their heads, or the knife severed 
their throats, — were of the darkest character, and 


A U R E L I A N . 


103 


brought a deep gloom upon the brow of the Emperor. 
The report of the haruspices, upon examination of the 
•mtrails, was little calculated to remove that gloom. It 
was for the most part unfavorable. Especially appall¬ 
ing was the sight of a heart, so lean and withered, that 
it scarce seemed possible that it should ever have form¬ 
ed a part of a living animal. But more harrowing than 
all, was the voice of Pronto, who, prying with the ha¬ 
ruspices into the smoking carcass of one of the slaugh¬ 
tered bulls, suddenly cried out with horror, that ‘ no 
heart was to be found.’ 

The Emperor, hardly to be restrained by those near 
him from some expression of anger, ordered a more dili¬ 
gent search to be made. 

‘ It is not in nature that such a thing should be,’ he 
said. ‘ Men are, in truth, sometimes without hearts ; 
but brutes, as I think, never.’ 

The report was however confidently confirmed. 
Pronto himself approached, and said that his eye had 
from the first been upon the beast, and the exact truth 
had been stated. 

The carcasses, such parts as were for the flames, 
were then laid upon the vast altar, and the flames of 
the sacrifice ascended. 

The heavens were again obscured by thick clouds, 
which, accumulating into heavy volumes, began now, 
nearer and nearer, to shoot forth lightning, and roll their 
thunders. The priest commenced the last office, prayer 
to the god to whom the new temple had been thus sol¬ 
emnly consecrated. He again bowed his head, and 
again lifted up his voice. But no sooner had he in¬ 
voked the god of the temple and besought his ear, 'han 


J04 


A U R E L I A N . 


again, froia its dark interior, the same awful sounds 
issued forth, this time saying, ‘ Thy gods, 0 Rome, 
are false and lying gods. God is but one.’ 

Aurelian, pale, as it seemed to me, with superstitious 
fear, again strove to shake it off, giving it artfully and 
with violence the appearance of offended dignity. His 
voice was a shriek rather than a human utterance, as he 
cried out, 

‘ This is but a Christian device ; search the temple 
till the accursed Nazarene be found, and hew him piece¬ 
meal — ’ More he would have said, but, at the instant, 
a bolt of lightning shot from the heavens, and, lighting 
upon a large sycamore which shaded a part of the tem¬ 
ple court, clove it in twain. The swollen cloud, at the 
same moment, burst, and a deluge of rain poured upon 
the city, the temple, the gazing multitude, and the just 
kindled altars. The sacred fires went out in hissing and 
darkness ; a tempest of wind whirled the limbs of the 
slaughtered victims into the air, and abroad over the 
neighboring streets. All was confusion, uproar, terror, 
and dismay. The crowds sought safety in the houses 
of the nearest inhabitants, in the porches, and in the 
palaces. Aurelian and the senators and those nearest 
him, fled to the interior of the temple. The heavens 
blazed with the quick flashing of the lightning, and the 
temple itself seemed to rock beneath the voice of the 
thunder. I never knew in Rome so terrific a tempest. 
The stoutest trembled, for life hung by a thread. Grea» 
numbers, it has now been found, in every part of the 
capital, fell a prey to the fiery bolts. The capitol itself 
was struck, and the brass statue of Vespasian in the fo 
rum ihrowu down and partly melted. The Tiber in a 


4 U R E L I A N. 


105 


few hours overran its banks, and laid much of the city 
on its borders under water. 

But, ere long, the storm was over. The retreating 
clouds, but still sullenly muttering in the distance as 
they rolled away, were again lighted up by the sun, who 
again shone forth in his splendor. The scattered limbs 
of the victims were collected and again laid upon the 
altar. Dry wood being brought, the flames quickly 
shot upward and consumed to the last joint and bone 
the sacred offerings. Pronto once more stood before the 
altar, and now uninterrupted performed the last office ol 
the ceremony. Then, around the tables spread within 
the temple to the honor of the gods, feasting upon the 
luxuries contributed by every quarter of the earth, and 
filling high with wine, the adverse omens of the day 
were by most forgotten. But not by Aurelian. No 
sm.ile was seen to light up his dark countenance. The 
jests of Varus and the wisdom of Porphyrins alike failed 
to reach him. Wrapped in his own thoughts, he brooded 
gloomily over what had happened, and strove to read 
the interpretation of portents so unusual and alarming. 

I went not in to the feast, but returned home reflect¬ 
ing as I went upon the events I had witnessed. I knew 
not what to think. That in times past, long after the 
departure from the earth of Jesus and his immediate fol¬ 
lowers, the Deity had interposed in seasons of peculiar 
perplexity to the church, and, in a way to be observed, 
had manifested his power, I did not doubt. But for a 
lono- time such revelations had wholly ceased. And I 
could not see any such features in the present juncture, 
as would, to speak as a man, justify and vindicate a de¬ 
parture from the ordinary methods of the Divine Provb 


108 


AURE LI A N. 


dence. But tuen, on the other hand, I coulu not other¬ 
wise account for the voice, nor discover any way in 
which, had one been so disposed, he coul 1 so successfully 
and securely have accomplished his work. Revolving 
these things, and perplexed by doubts, I reached the 
Coclian — when, as I entered my dwelling, I found, to 
my great satisfaction. Probus seated with Julia, who at 
an early period, foreseeing the tempest, had with Portia 
withdrawn to the security of her own roof. 

‘ I am glad you are come at length,’ said Julia as I 
entered ; ‘ our friend has scarce spoken. I should think, 
did I not know the contrary, that he had suddenly aban¬ 
doned the service of truth and become a disciple of 
Novatus. He hath done little but groan and sigh.’ 

‘ Surely, ’ I replied, ‘ the occasion warrants both sighs 
and groans. But when came you from the temple ? ’ 

‘ On the appearance of the storm, just as Pronto ap¬ 
proached the altar the first time. The signs were not 
to be mistaken, by any who were not so much engrossed 
by the scene as to be insensible to all else, that a tempest 
was in the sky, and would soon break upon the crowds 
in a deluge of rain and hail — as has happened. So 
that warning Portia of the danger, we early retreated 
she with reluctance; but for myself, I was glad to be 
driven away from a scene that brought so vividly before 
me the events of the early morning.’ 

‘ 1 am glad it was so,’ I replied ; ‘ you would have been 
more severely tried, had you remained.’ And I then 
gave an account of the occurrences of the day. 

‘ I know not what to make of it,’ she said as I ended 
Probus, teach us what to think. I am bewildered and 
amazed.’ 


A U R E L I A N . 


107 


‘ Lady,’ said Probus, ‘ the Christian service is a hard one.' 

‘ I have not found it so, thus far; but, on the other hand, 
a light and easy one.’ 

‘ But the way is not ever so smooth, and the path, 
once entered upon, there is no retreat.’ 

‘ No roughness nor peril, Probus, be they what they 
may, can ever shake me. It is for eternity I have em¬ 
braced this faith, not for time — for my soul, not for my 
body.’ 

‘ God be thanked that it is so. But the evils and sor¬ 
rows that time has in store, and which afflict the body, 
are not slight. And sometimes they burst forth from 
the overburdened clouds in terrific violence, and poor 
human strength sinks and trembles, as to-day before the 
conflict of the elements.’ 

‘ They would find me strong in spirit and purpose, I 
am sure. Probus, however my woman’s frame of flesh 
might yield. No fear can change my mind, nor tear me 
from the hopes which through Christ I cherish more, a 
thousand fold, than this life of an hour.’ 

‘ Why, why is it so ordained in the Providence of 
God,’ said Probus, ‘ that truth must needs be watered 
with tears and blood, ere it will grow and bear fruit ? 
When, as now, the sky is dark and threatening, and the 
mina is thronged with fearful anticipations of the sorrows 
that await those who hold this faith, how can I, with a 
human heart within me, labor to convert the unbeliev¬ 
ing ? The words falter upon my tongue. I turn from 
the young inquirer, and with some poor reason put him 
off to another season. When I preach, it is with a cold¬ 
ness that must repel, and it is that which I almost desire 
to be the effect. My prayers never reach heaven, nor 


103 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


the consciences of those who hear. Probus, they say, is 
growing worldly. His heart burns no longer within 
him. His zeal is cold. We must look to Macer. ] 
fear, lady, that the reproaches are well deserved. Not 
that I am growing worldly or cold, but that my human 
affections lead me away from duty, and make me a trai¬ 
tor to truth, and my master.’ 

‘ O no. Probus,’ said Julia; ‘ these are charges fool¬ 
ish and false. There is not a Christian in Rome but 
would say so. We all re.it upon you.’ 

‘ Then upon what a broken reed ! I am glad it was 
not I who made you a Christian.’ 

‘ Do you grieve to have been a benefactor ?’ 

‘ Almost, when I see the evils which are to overwhelm 
the believer. I look round upon my little flock of hear¬ 
ers, and I seem to see them led as lambs to the slaugh¬ 
ter — poor, defenceless creatures, set upon by worse than 
lions and wolves. And you, lady of Piso, how can I 
sincerely rejoice that you have added your great name 
to our humble roll, when I think of what may await 
you. Is that form to be dragged with violence amid 
the hootings of the populace to the tribunal of the beast 
Varus? Are those limbs for the rack or the fire ? ’ 

‘ I trust in God they are not. Probus. But if they 
are needed, they are little to give for that which has 
made me so rich, and given wings to the soul. I can 
spare the body, now that the soul can live without it.’ 

‘ There spoke the universal Christian ’ What but 
truth could so change our poor human nature into some¬ 
what quite divine and godlike ! Think not I shrink my¬ 
self at the prospect of obstruction and assault. I arn a 
man loose upon the world, weaned by suffering and 


AU RE LIAN. 


lOi 

misfortune from earth, and ready at any hour to depan 
from it. You know my early story But 1 in vair 
seek to steel myself to the pains of others. From wha.'' 
I have said, I fear lest you should think me over-appre 
hensive. I wish it were so. But all seems at this mo¬ 
ment to be against us.’ 

‘ More then,’ said Julia, ‘ must have come to you^^ 
ears than to ours. When last we sat with the Empero. 
at his table, he seemed well inclined. And when urged 
by Pronto, rebuked him even with violence.’ 

‘ Yes, it was so.’ 

‘ Is it then from the scenes of to-day at the temple 
that you draw fresh omens of misfortune ? I have 
asked you what we should think of them.’ 

‘ I almost tremble to say. I stood, Piso, not far from 
you, upon the lower flight of steps, where I think you 
observed me.’ 

‘ I did. And at the sound of that voice from the tern 
pie, methought your face was paler than Aurelian’s. 
Why was that ? ’ 

‘ Because, Piso, I knew the voice.’ 

‘ Knew it! What mean you ?’ 

‘ Repeat it not — let it sink into vour ear, and there 
abide. It was Macer’s.’ 

‘ Macer’s ? Surely you jest.’ 

‘ Alas ! I wish it were a jest. But his tones were no 
more to be mistaken than were the thunder’s.’ 

‘ This, should it be known, would, it is plain to see 
greatly exasperate Aurelian. It would be more than 
enough for Fronto to work his worst end? A^ith. His 
mspicions at once fell upon the Christians.’ 

10 VOL. I. 



110 


A U R E LI A N . 


‘ Thai,’ said Probus, ‘ was, I am confident, an artifice 
The countenance, struck with superstitious horror, is 
not to be read amiss. Seen, though but for a moment, 
and the signature is upon it, one and unequivocal. But 
with quick instinct the wily priest saw his advantage, 
seized it, and, whether believing or not himself, succeeded 
in poisoning the mind of Aurelian and that of the mul¬ 
titude. So great was the commotion among the popu¬ 
lace, that, but for the tempest, I believe scarce would 
the legions of the Emperor have saved us from slaughter 
upon the spot. Honest, misguided Macer — little dost 
thou know how deep a wound thou hast struck into the 
very dearest life of the truth, for which thou wouldst yet 
at any moment thyself freely sutler and die ! ’ 

‘ What,’ said Julia, ‘ could have moved him to such 
madness ? ’ 

‘ With him,’ replied Probus, ‘ it was a deed of piety 
and genuine zeal for God ; he saw it in the light of an 
act god-like, and god-directed. Could you read his 
heart, you would find it calm and serene, in the con¬ 
sciousness of a great duty greatly performed. I*t is 
very possible he may have felt himself to be but an in¬ 
strument in the hand of a higher power, to whom he 
gives all the glory and the praise. There are many 
like him, lady, both among Christians and Pagans. 
The sybils impose not so much upon others as upon 
themselves. They who give forth the responses of the 
oracle, oft-times believe that they are in very truth full 
of the god, and speak not their own thoughts, but the in¬ 
spirations of him whose priests they are. To them¬ 
selves more than to others are they impostors. The con¬ 
ceit of the peculiar favor of God, or of the gods in re 


AURE LIAN . 


Ill 


turn for extraordinary devotion, is a weakness that bcscns 
our nature wherever it is found. An apostle perhaps 
never believed in his inspiration more firmly than at 
times does Macer, and others among us like him. But 
this inward solitary persuasion we know is nothing, 
however it may carry away captive the undiscrimina- 
ting multitude.’ 

‘ Hence, Probus, then, I suppose, the need of some 
outward act of an extraordinary nature to show the in¬ 
spiration real.’ 

‘ Yes,’ he replied. ‘ No assertion of divine impulses 
or revelations can avail to persuade us of their reality, 
except supported and confirmed by miracle. That, and 
that only, proves the present God. Christ would have 
died without followers had he exhibited to the world 
only his character and his truth, even though he had 
claimed, and claimed truly, a descent from and commu¬ 
nion with the Deity. Men would have said, ‘ This is 
an old and common story. We see every day and every¬ 
where those who affect divine aid. No act is so easy 
as to deceive one’s self. If you propose a spiritual moral 
system and claim for it a divine authority, show your 
authority by a divine work, a work impossible to man, 
and we will then admit your claims. But your own in¬ 
ward convictions alone, sincere as they may be, and pos¬ 
sibly founded in truth, pass with us for nothing. Raise 
one that was dead to life, and we will believe you when 
you reveal to us the spiritual world and the life to come.’ 

‘ I think,’ said Julia, ‘ such would be the process in 
my own mind. There seems the same natural and 
necessary connection here between spiritual truths and 
outward acts, as between the forms of letters or the sound 


112 


A U R E L I A N . 


of words, and ideas. We receive the most subtle of Pla 
to’s reasonings through words — those miracles of ma^ 
terial help— which address themselves to the eye or ear. 
So we receive the truths of Jesus through the eye wit¬ 
nessing his works, or the ear hearing the voice from 
Heaven. — But we wander from Macer, in whom, from 
what you have told us, and Piso has known, we both feel 
deeply interested. Can he not be drawn away from those 
fancies which possess him ? ’Tis a pity we should lose 
so strong an advocate, to some minds so resistless, nor 
only that, but suffer injury from his extravagance.’ 

‘ It is our purpose,’ I replied, ‘ to visit him to try what 
effect earnest remonstrance and appeal may have. Soon 
as I shall return from my promised and now necessary 
visit to Marcus and Lucilia, I shall not fail, Probus, to 
request you to accompany me to his dwelling.’ 

‘ Does he dwell far from us? ’ asked Julia. 

‘ His house, if house it may be called,’ replied Probus, 
‘is in a narrow street, which runs just behind the shop 
of Demetrius, midway between the Capitol and the 
Quirinal. It is easily found by first passing the shop 
and then -descending quick to the left — the street Ja¬ 
nus, our friend Isaac’s street, turning off at the same 
point to the right. At Macer’s, should your feet ever 
be drawn that way, you would see how and in what 
crowded space the poor live in Rome.’ 

‘ Has he then a family, as your words seem to imply ?’ 

‘ He has ; and one more lovely dwells not within the 
walls of Rome. In his wife and elder children, as I 
have informed Piso, we shall find warm and eloquent 
advocates on our side. They tremble for their husband 
and father, whom they reverence and love, knowing his 


AURELIAN. 


113 


impetuosity, his fearlessness and his zeal. Many an as¬ 
sault has he already brought upon himself, and is des¬ 
tined, I fear, to draw down many more and heavier.’ 

‘ Heaven shield them all from harm,’ said Julia. ‘ Are 
they known to Demetrius ? His is a benevolent heart 
and he would rejoice to do them a service. No one is 
better known too or respected than the Roman Deme¬ 
trius : his name merely would be a protection.’ 

‘ It was from Macer,’ replied Probus, ‘ that Demetrius 
first heard the truth which now holds him captive. 
Their near neighborhood brought them often together. 
Demetrius was impressed by the ardor and evident sin¬ 
cerity so visible in the conversation and manners of 
Macer ; and Macer was drawn toward Demetrius by 
the cast of melancholy — that sober, thoughtful air — 
that separates him so from his mercurial brother, and 
indeed from all. He wished he were a Christian. And 
by happy accidents being thrown together — or rather 
drawn by some secret bond of attraction—he in no long 
time had the happiness to see him one. From the hand 
of Felix he received the waters of baptism.’ 

‘ What you have said. Probus, gives me great pleas¬ 
ure. I am not only now sure that Macer and his little 
tribe have a friend at hand, but the knowledge that such 
a mind as that of Demetrius has been wrought upon 
by Macer, has served to raise him in my esteem and 
respect. He can be no common man, and surely no 
madman.’ 

‘ The world ever loves to charge those as mad,’ said 
Probus, ‘ who, in devotion to a great cause, exceed iU 
cold standard of moderation. Singular, that excess 
10 * VOL. I. 


114 


A U R E L I A N . 


virtue should incur this reproach, while excess in vice 
is held but as a weakness of our nature ! ’ 

We were here interrupted by Milo, who came to 
conduct us to the supper room ; and there our friendly 
talk was prolonged far into the night. 

When I next write, I shall have somewhat to say of 
Marcus, Lucilia, and the little Gallus. How noble and 
generous in the Queen, her magnificent gift ! When 
summer comes round again, I shall not fail, together with 
Julia, to see you there. How many recollections will 
come thronging upon me when I shall again find myself 
in the court of the Elephant, sitting where I once sat so 
often and listened to the voice of Longinus. May you 
see there many happy years. Farewell. 


Nothing could exceed the sensation caused in Rome 
by the voice heard at the dedication, and among the ad¬ 
herents of the popular faith, by the unlucky omens ol 
the day and of the sacrifice. My office at that time 
called me often to the capital, and to the palace of Aure- 
lian, and threw me frequently into his company and 
that of Livia. My presence was little heeded by the 
Emperor, who, of a bold and manly temper, spoke out 
with little reserve, and with no disguise or fear, whatever 
s-entiments possessed him. From such opportunities, and 
from communications of Menestheus, the secretary of 
Aurelian, little took place at the palace which came not 
to my knowledge. The morning succeeding the dedi- 
cation I had come to the city bringing a packet from the 
Queen to the Empress Livia. While I waited in the 
common reception room of the palace, I took from a 


A U R E L I A N . 


115 


case standing there, a volume and read. As i read, 1 
presently was aroused by the sound of Aurelian’s voice. 
It was as if engaged in earnest conversation. He soon 
entered the apartment accompanied by the priest of the 
new temple. 

‘ There is something,’ he said as he drew near, ‘ in 
this combination of unlucky signs that might appal a 
stouter spirit than mine. This too, after a munificence 
toward not one only but all the temples, never I am sure 
surpassed. Every god has been propitiated by gifts and 
appropriate rites. How can all this be interpreted other 
than most darkly — other than as a general hostility — 
and a discouragement from an enterprise upon which I 
would found my glory. This has come most unlooked 
for. I confess myself perplexed. I have openly pro¬ 
claimed my purpose— the word has gone abroad and 
travelled by this to the court of Persia itself, that with 
all Rome at my back I am once more to tempt the 
deserts of the East.’ 

He here suddenly paused, being reminded by Pronto 
of my presence. 

‘ Ah, it matters not ;’ he said ; ‘ this is but Nicho- 
machus, the good servant of the Queen of Palmyra. I 
hope,’ he said, turning to me, ‘ that the Queen is well, 
and the young Faustula ? ’ 

‘ They are well,’ I replied. 

‘How agree with her these cooler airs of the west? 
These are not the breezes of Arabia, that come to-day 
from the mountains.’ 

‘ She heeds them little,’ I replied, ‘ her thoughts are 
engrossed by heavier cares.’ 

‘ They must be fewer now than ever.’ 


116 


U R E L 1 A N . 


‘ They are fewer, but they are heavier and weigh upon 
her life more than the whole East once did. The re¬ 
membrance of a single great disaster weighs as a heavier 
burden than the successful management of an empire. 

‘ True, Nichomachus, that is over true.’ Then, with¬ 
out further regarding me, he went on with his conver¬ 
sation with Pronto. 

‘ I cannot,’ he said, ‘ now go back ; and to go forward 
may be persumptuous.’ 

‘I cannot but believe, great Emperor,’ said Pronto 
‘ that I have it in my power to resolve your doubts, and 
set your mind at ease.’ 

‘ Rest not then,’ said Aurelian with impatience—‘but 
say on.’ 

‘ You sought the gods and read the omens with but 
one prayer and thought. And you have construed them 
as all bearing upon one point and having one significan- 
cy —because you have looked in no other direction. I 
believe they bear upon a different point, and that when 
you look behind and before, you will be of the same 
judgment.’ 

‘ Whither tends all this ? ’ 

‘ To this — that the omens of the day bear not upon 
your eastern expedition, but upon the new religion ! 
You are warned as the great high priest, by these signs 
in heaven and on earth —not against this projected ex¬ 
pedition, which is an act of piety, — but against this ac¬ 
cursed superstition, which is working its way into the 
empire, and threatening the extermination and overthrow 
of the very altars on which you laid your costly offer¬ 
ings. What concern can the divinities feel in the array 
ol an army, destined to whatever service, compared with 


A U R E L I A N . 


117 


lhai which must agitate their sacred breasts as thev be¬ 
hold their altars cast down or forsaken, their names pro¬ 
faned, their very being denied, their worshippers drawn 
from them to the secret midnight orgies of a tribe of 
Atheists, whose aim is anarchy in the state and in relig¬ 
ion ; owning neither king on earth nor king in heaven 
— every man to be his own priest— every man his own 
master ! Is not this the likeliest reading of the omens ?' 

‘ I confess, Fronto,’ the Emperor replied, the cloud 
upon his brow clearing away as he spoke, ‘ that what 
you say possesses likelihood. I believe I have inter¬ 
preted according to my fears. It is as you say — the 
East only has been in my thoughts. It cannot in reason 
be thought to be this enterprize, which, as you have said, 
is an act of piety — all Rome would judge it so — against 
which the heavens have thus arrayed themselves. 
Fronto ! Fronto ! I am another man ! Slave,’ cried he 
aloud to one of the menials as he passed, ‘ let Mucapor 
be instantly summoned. Let there be no delay. Now 
can my affairs be set on with something more of speed. 
When the gods smile, mountains sink to mole-hills. A 
divine energy runs in the current of the blood and lends 
more than mortal force to the arm and the will.’ 

As he spoke, never did so malignant a joy light up 
the human countenance as was to be seen in the face of 
Fronto. 

‘ And what then,’ he hastily put in as the Emper¬ 
or paused, ‘ what shall be done with these profane 
wretches ? ’ 

‘ The Christians ! They must be seen to. I will con¬ 
sider. Now, Fronto, shall I fill to the brim the cup of 
numan glory. Now shall Rome by me vindicate he^ 


118 


A U R E L I A N . 


lost honor and wipe off the foulest stain that since the 
time of Romulus has darkened her annals.’ 

‘You will do yourself and the empire,’rejoined the 
priest, ‘ immortal honor. If danger ever threatened the 
very existence of the state it is now from the secret 
machinations of this god-denying tribe.’ 

‘ I spake of the East and of Valerian, Pronto. Syria 
IS now Rome’s. Palmyra, that mushroom of a day, is 
level with the ground. Her life is out. She will be 
hereafter known but by the fame of her past greatness, 
of her matchless Queen, and the glory of the victories 
that crowned the arms of Aurelian. What now remains 
but Persia ? ’ 

‘ The Christians,’ said the priest, shortly and bitterly. 

‘ You are right. Pronto ; the omens are not to be read 
otherwise. It is against them they point. It shall be 
maturely weighed what shall be done. When Persia 
is swept from the field, and Ctesiphon lies as low as 
Palmyra, then will I restore the honor of the gods, and 
let who will dare to worship other than as I shall or¬ 
dain ! Whoever worships them not, or other than them, 
shall die.’ 

‘ In that spoke the chief minister of religion — the re¬ 
presentative of the gods. The piety of Aurelian is in 
the mouths of men not less than his glory. The city 
resounds with the praise of him who has enriched 
the temples, erected new ones, made ample provision for 
the priesthood, and fed the poor. This is the best great¬ 
ness. Posterity will rather honor and remember him 
who saved them their faith, than him who gained a Per¬ 
sian victory. The victory for Religion too is to be had 
without cost, without a step taken from the palace gate 


AURELIAN. 119 

cr from the side of her who is alike Aurelian’s and the 
empire’s boast.’ 

‘ Nay, nay, Fronto, you are over-zealous. This east¬ 
ern purpose admits not of delay. Hormisdas is new in 
his power. The people are restless and divided. The 
present is the moment of success. It cannot bear delay. 
To-morrow, could it be so, would I start for Thrace. 
The heavens are propitious. They frown no longer.’ 

‘ The likeliest way, methinks,’ replied the priest, ‘ to in¬ 
sure success and the continued favor of the gods in that 
which they do not forbid, were first to fulfil their com¬ 
mands in what they have enjoined.’ 

‘That, Fronto, cannot be denied. It is of weight. 
But where, of two commands, both seem alike urgent, 
and both cannot be done at once, whether we will or 
not, we must choose, and in choosing we may err.’ 

‘ To an impartial, pious mind, 0 Emperor, the god of 
thy worship never shone more clear in the heavens 
than shines his will in the terrific signs of yesterday. 
Forgive thy servant, but drawn as thou art by the im¬ 
age of fresh laurels of victory to be bound about thy 
brow, of the rich spoils of Persia, of its mighty mon¬ 
arch at thy chariot wheels, and the long line of a new 
triumph sweeping through the gates and the great 
heart of the capital, — and thou art blind to the will of 
the gods, though writ in the dread convulsions of the 
elements and the unerring language of the slaughtered 
victims.’ 

‘Both may be done — both, Fronto. I blame not 
your zeal. Your freedom pleases me. Religion is thus, 
1 know, in good hands. But both I say may be done. 
The care of the empire in this its other part r \ay be 


120 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


left to toee and Varus, with full powers to see that tht 
state, in the matter of its faith, receives no harm. Youi 
knowledge in this, if not your zeal, is more than mine. 
While I meet the enemies of Rome abroad, you shall 
be my other s^lf, and gain other victories at home.’ 

‘ Little, 1 fear, Aurelian, could be done even by me 
and Varus leagued, with full delegated powers, opposed 
as we should be by Tacitus and the senate and the best 
half of Rome. None, but an arm omnipotent as thine, 
can crush this mischief. I see thou knowest not how 
deep it has struck, nor how wide it has spreads Tht 
very foundations of the throne and the empire are un¬ 
dermined. The poison of Christian atheism has in¬ 
fected the whole mind of the people, not only through¬ 
out Rome, but Italy, Gaul, Africa, and Asia. And for 
this we have to thank whom ? Whom but ourselves ? 
Ever since Hadrian — otherwise a patriot king — built 
his imageless temples, in imitation of this barren and 
lifeless worship ; ever since the weak Alexander and 
his superstitious mother filled the imperial palace with 
their statues of Christ, with preachers and teachers of 
his religion ; ever since the Philips openly and without 
shame professed his faith ; ever, I say, since these 
great examples have been before the world, has the an¬ 
cient religion declined its head, and the new stalked 
proudly by. Let not Aurelian’s name be added to this 
fatal list. Let him first secure the honor of the gods —■ 
then, and not till then, seek his own.’ 

‘ You urge with warmth. Pronto, and with reason too. 
Your words are not wasted; they have fallen where 
they shall be deeply pondered. In the meantime I will 
wait for the judgment of the augurs and haruspices; 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


121 


ana ae the colleges report, will hold myself bound so 
to act.’ 

So they conversed, and then passed on. I was at 
that time but little conversant with the religious condi¬ 
tion of the empire. I knew but little of the character of 
the prevailing faith and the Pagan priesthood; and I 
knew less of the new religion as ii was termed. Bu' 
the instincts of my heart were from the gods, and the^ 
were all for humanity. I loved man, whoever he was, 
.^nd of whatever name or faith ; and I sickened at cru¬ 
elties perpetrated against him, both in war, and by the 
bloody spirit of superstition. I burned with indigna¬ 
tion therefore as I listened to the cold-blooded arguings 
of the bigoted priest, and wept to see how artfully he 
could warp aside the better nature of Aurelian, and 
pour his own venom into veins, that had else run with 
human blood, at least not with the poisoned current of 
tigers, wolves, and serpents, of every name and nature 
most vile. My hope was that, away from his prompter^ 
the first purpose of Aurelian would return ^nd have ita 
way/ 


122 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


LETTER V. 

FROM PISO TO FAUSTA. 

1 am now returned from my long intended visit to the 
villa of Marcus, and have much to say concerning it. 

But, first of all, rejoice with me in a fresh demonstra¬ 
tion of good will, on the part of Aurelian towards Zeno- 
bia. And what think you it is ? Nothing less than 
this, that Vabalathus has been made, by Aurelian and 
the senate, king of Armenia ! The kingdom is not large, 
but large enough for him at his present age — if he shall 
show himself competent, additions doubtless will be 
made. Our only regret is, that the Queen loses thus his 
presence with her at Tibur. He had become to his 
mother all that a son should be. Not that in respect to 
native force he could ever make good the loss of Julia, 
or even of'LWia, but, that in all the many offices which 
an affectionate child would render to a parent in the 
changed circumstances of Zenobia, he has proved to be 
a solace and a support. 

The second day from the dedication, passing through 
the Porta Asinaria with Milo at my side, I took the road 
that winds along the hither bank of the Tiber, and leads 
most pleasantly, if not most directly, to the seat of my 
friends — and you are well aware how willingly 1 sacri¬ 
fice a little time on the way, if by doing so I can more 
than make up the loss by obtaining brighter glimpses ol 
earth and sky. Had I not found Christianity, Fausta- 


A U R E L I A N. 


123 


this would have been my religion. I should have for* 
saken the philosophers, and gone forth into the fields, 
among the eternal hills, upon the banks of the river, or 
the margin of the ever-flowing ocean, and in the lessons 
there silently read to me, I should, I think, have arrived 
at some very firm and comfortable faith in God and im¬ 
mortality. And 1 am especially happy in this, that na¬ 
ture in no way loses its interest or value, because I now 
draw truth from a more certain source. I take the same 
pleasure as before, in observing and contemplating her 
various forms, and the clearer light of Christianity brings 
to view a thousand beauties, to which before I was in¬ 
sensible. Just as in reading a difficult author, although 
you may have reached his sense in some good degree, 
unaided, yet a judicious commentator points out excel¬ 
lences, and unfolds truths, which you had either wholly 
overlooked, or but imperfectly comprehended. 

All without the city walls, as within, bore witness to 
the graciousness of the Emperor in the prolonged holi¬ 
day he had granted the people. It was as if the Satur¬ 
nalia had arrived. Industry, such as there ever is, was 
suspended; all were sitting idle, or thronging some 
game, or gathering in noisy groups about some mounte¬ 
bank. As we advanced farther, and came just beyond 
the great road leading to Tibur, we passed the school of 
the celebrated gladiator Sosia, at the door of which there 
had just arrived from the amphitheatre, a cart bearing 
home the bodies of such as had been slain the preceding 
day, presenting a disgusting spectacle of wounds, brui¬ 
ses, and flowing blood. 

‘ Th( re was brave fighting yesterday,’ said Milo ; 
these are hut a few out of all that fell. The first day’s 


124 


A U R £ L I A rs . 


sport was an hundred of the trained gladiators, most & 
them from the school of Sosia, set against a hundred 
picked captives of all nations. Not less tnan a half ol 
each number got it. These fellows look as if they had 
done their best. You’ve fought your last battle, old 
boys —unless you have a bout with Charon, who wii1 
be loath, I warrant you beforehand, to ferry over such a 
slashed and swollen company. Now ought you in 
charity,’ he continued, addressing a half-naked savage, 
who was helping to drag the bodies from the cart, ‘ to 
have these trunks well washed ere you bury them, or 
pitch them into the Tiber, else they will never get over 
the Styx — not forgetting too the ferriage —’ what 
more folly he would have uttered, I know not, for the 
wretch to whom he spoke suddenly seized the lash of 
the driver of the cart, and laid it over Milo’s shoulders, 
saying, as he did it, 

‘ Off, fool, or my fist shall do for you what it did for 
one of these.’ 

The bystanders, at this, set up a hoarse shouting, one 
of them exclaiming, so that I could hear him — 

‘ There goes the Christian Piso, we or the lions will 
have a turn at him yet. These are the fellows that 
spoil our trade.’ 

‘ If report goes true, they won’t spoil it long,’ replied 
another. 

No rank and no power is secure against the aflronts 
of this lawless tribe ; they are a sort of license! brawl¬ 
ers, their brutal and inhuman trade rendering them in¬ 
sensible to all fear from any quarter. Death is to them 
but as a scratch on the finger—they care nut for it, 
when nor how it comes. The slightest caus« — a oass- 


A.U RE LI AN. 


126 

ing word —a look — a motion — is enough to inflame 
their ferocious passions, and bring on quarrel and mur¬ 
der. Riot and death are daily occurrences in the neigh- 
Dorhood of these schools of trained assassins. Milo 
knew their character well enough, but he deemed him¬ 
self to be uttering somewhat that should amuse rather 
than enrage, and was mortified rather than terrified, I 
believe, at the sudden application of the lash. The un¬ 
feigned surprise he manifested, together with the quick 
leap which his horse made, who partook of the blow, 
was irresistibly ludicrous. He was nearly thrown off 
backwards in the speed of the animal’s flight along the 
road. It was some time before I overtook him. 

‘ Intermeddling,’ I said to Milo, as I came up with 
him, ‘ is a dangerous vice. How feel your shoulders V 

‘ I shall remember that one-eyed butcher, and if there 
be virtue in hisses or in thumbs, he shall rue the hour 
he laid a lash on Gallienus, poor fellow! Whose 
horsemanship is equal to such an onset ? I’ll haunt the 
theatre till my chance come.’ 

‘ Well, well, let us forget this. How went the games 
yesterday ? ’ 

‘ Never, as I hear,’ he said, ‘ and as I remember, were 
they more liberal, or more magnificent. Larger, or 
more beautiful, or finer beasts, neither Asia nor Africa 
ever sent over. They fought as if they had been train¬ 
ed to it, like these scholars of Sosia, and in most cases 
they bore away the palm from them. How many ol 
Sosia’s men exactly fell, it is not known, but not fewer 
than threescore men were either torn in pieces, or res¬ 
cued too much lacerated to fight more.’ 

1 1 * VOL. I. 


128 


A U K E L I A N . 


‘What captives were sacrificed?’ 

‘ I did not learn of what nation they were, nor how 
many. All I know, is what I witnessed toward the end 
of the sport. Never before did I behold such a form, 
nor such feats of strength ! He was another Hercules. 
It was rumored he was from the forests of Germany. If 
you will believe it, which I scarce can, though I saw it, 
he fought successively with six of Sosia’s best men, and 
one after another laid them all sprawling. A seventh 
was then set upon him, he having no time to breathe, or 
even drink. Many however cried out against this. But 
Romans, you know, like not to have their fun spoiled, 
so the seventh was not taken ofT. As every one fore¬ 
saw, this was too much by just one for the hero; but he 
fought desperately, and it is believed Sosia’s man got 
pushes he will never recover from. He was soon how¬ 
ever on his knees, and then on his back, the sword of 
his antagonist at his throat, he lying like a gasping fish 
at his mercy — who waited the pleasure of the specta¬ 
tors a moment, before he struck. Then was there a 
great shouting all over the theatre in his behalf, besides 
making the sign to spare him. But just at the mo¬ 
ment, as for him ill fortune would have it, some poltroon 
cried out with a voice that went all over the theatre, 
‘ The dog is a Christian !’ Whereupon, like lightning, 
every thumb went up, and down plunged the sword into 
his neck. So, master, thou seest what 1 tell thee every 
day, there is small virtue in being a Christian. It is 
every way dangerous. If a thief run through the streets 
the cry is, a Christian ! a Christian ! If a man is mur¬ 
dered, they who did it accuse some neighboring Chris¬ 
tian, and he dies for it. If a Christian fall into the Ti 


A U R E L I A N . 


127 


oer, men look on as on a drowning* dog. If he slip ol 
fall in a crowd, they will help to trample him to death. 
If he is sicA; or poor, none but his own tribe will help 
him. A slave has a better chance. Even the Jew des¬ 
pises him, and spits upon his gown as he passes. What 
but the love of contempt and death can make one a 
Christian, ’tis hard to see. Had that captive been other 
than a Christian, he would not have fallen as he did.’ 

‘ Very likely. But the Christians, you know, fre¬ 
quent not the amphitheatre. Had they been there in 
their just proportion to the rest, the voice would at least 
have been a divided one.’ 

‘ Nay, as for that,’ he rejoined, ‘ there were some 
stout voices raised in his behalf to the last, but too few 
to be regarded. But even in the streets, where all sorts 
are found, there is none to take the Christian’s part — 
unless it be that old gashed soldier of the fifth legion, 
who stalks through the streets as though all Rome were 
his. By the gods, I believe he would beard Aurelian 
himself! He will stand at a corner, in some public 
place, and preach to the crowds, and give never an inch 
for all their curses and noise. They fear him too much. 
I believe, to attack him with aught but words. And i 
wonder not at it. A few days since, a large dog was in 
wicked wantonness, as I must allow, set upon a poor 
Christian boy. Macer, so he is called about the city, 
at the moment came up. Never tiger seized hia prey 
as he seized that dog, and first dashing out his brains 
upon the pavement, pursued then the pursuers of the 
boy, and beat them to jelly with the carcase of the beast, 
and then walked away unmolested, leading the child te 
his home. 


128 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ Men reverence courage, Milo, everywhere and in 
ill.’ 

‘ That do they. It was so with me once, when Gal 
lien us —’ 

‘ Gallop, Milo, to that mile-stone, and report to me 
how far we have come.’ 

I still as ever extract much, Fausta, from my faith¬ 
ful if foolish slave. 

In due time and without Hindrance, or accident, I 
reached the outer gate of my friend’s villa. 

The gate was opened by Ccelia, whose husband is 
promoted to the place of porter. Her face shone as she 
saw me, and she hastened to assure’ me that all were 
well at the house, holding up at the same moment a 
curly-headed boy for me to admire, whom, with a blush 
and a faltering tongue, she called Lucius. I told her I 
was pleased with the name, for it was a good one, and 
he should not suffer for bearing it, if I could help it. 
Milo thought it unlucky enough that it should be named 
after a Christian, and I am certain has taken occasion to 
remonstrate with its mother on the subject; but, as you 
may suppose, did not succeed in infusing his own terrors. 

I was first met by Lucilia, who received me with her 
usual heartiness. Marcus was out on some remote pan 
of the estate, overseeing his slaves. In a few moments, 
by the assiduous Lucilia and her attendants, I was 
brushed and washed and set down to a table — though 
it was so few hours since I had left Rome — covered 
with bread, honey, butter and olives, a cold capon with 
salads, and wine such as the cellars of Maicus alone 
tan furnish. As tlie only wav in which to keep the 


AU R E LI A N. 


129 


good opinion of Lucilia is to eat, I ate of all that was 
on the table, she assuring me that everything was from 
their own grounds — the butter made by her own hands 

— and that 1 m-ight search Rome in vain for better. 
This I readily admitted. Indeed no butter is like hers 

— so yellow and so hard — nor bread so light, and so 
white. Even her honey is more delicious than what I 
find elsewhere, the bees knowing by instinct who they 
are working for ; and the poultry is fatter and tenderer, 
the hens being careful never to over-fatigue themselves, 
and the peacocks and the geese not to exhaust them¬ 
selves in screaming and cackling. All natur-e, alive 
and dead, takes upon itself a trimmer and more perfect 
seeming within her influences. 

I had sat thus gossipping with Lucilia, enjoying the 
balmy breezes of a warm autumn day, as they drew 
through the great hall of the house, when, preceded by 
the bounding Gallus, the master of the house entered 
in field dress of broad sun-hat, open neck, close coat de¬ 
pending to the knees, and boots that brought home with 
them the spoils of many a well-ploughed field. 

‘ Well, sir Christian,’ he cried, ‘ I joy to see thee, al¬ 
though thus recreant. But how is it that thou lookest 
as ever before ? Are not these vanities of silk, and gold, 
and fine clothes, renounced by those of the new religion ? 
Your appearance says nay, and, by Jupiter! wine has 
been drunk already ! Nay, nay, Lucilia, it was hardly 
pagan act to tempt our strict friend with that Falernian. 

‘ Falernian is it ? ’ 

* Yes, of the vintage of the fourth of Gallienue. De- 
.icious, was it not ? But by and by thou shalt taste 
something better than that — as much better as that le 


130 


A U R E L I A N . 


than anything of the same name thou didst ever raise 
to thy lips at the table of Aurelian. Piso ! never was a 
face more welcome ! Not a soul has looked in upon us 
for days and days. Not, Lucilia, since tl.e Kalends, 
when young Flaccus, with a boat-load of roysterers, 
ilropt down the river. But why comes not Julia too ? 
She could not leave the games and theatres, hah V 

‘ Marcus,’ said Lucilia, ‘ you forget it was the prin¬ 
cess who first seduced Lucius. But for that eastern 
voyage for the Persian Calpurnius, Piso would have 
been still, I dare saj-, what his parents made him. Let 
us not yet however stir this topic ; but first of all, Lu¬ 
cius, give us the city news. How went the dedication? 
we have heard strange tales.’ 

• How went it by report ? ’ I asked, 

‘ O, it would be long telling,’said Lucilia. ‘ Only,foi 
one thing, we heard that there was a massacre of the 
Christians, in which some said hundreds, and some, 
thousands fell. For a moment, I assure you, we trem¬ 
bled for you. It was quickly contradicted, but the con¬ 
firmation afforded by your actual presence, of your wel¬ 
fare, is not unwelcome. You must lay a part of the 
heartiness of our reception, especially the old Falernian, 
to the account of our relieved fears. But let us hear.’ 

I then went over the last days in Pome, adding what 
I had been able to gather from Milo, when it was such 
that I could trust to it. When I had satisfied their cu¬ 
riosity, and had moreover described to Lucilia the 
dresses of Livia on so great an occasion, and the fash¬ 
ions which were raging, Marcus proposed that I should 
accompany him over his farm, and observe his additions 
and improvements, and the condition of his slaves. jl 


A L’ U E L I A N . 


ig: 

dccepted the proposal with pleasure, and we soon set 
^orth on our ramble, accompanied by Gallus, now riding 
dis stick and now gambolling about the lawns and fields 
with his dog. 

I like this retreat of Curtius better almost than any 
other of the suburban villas of our citizens. There is 
an air of calm senatorial dignity about it which modern 
edifices want. It looks as if it had seen more than one 
generation of patrician inhabitants. There is little unity 
or order — as those words are commonly understood — 
observable in the structure of the house, but it presents 
to the eye an irregular assemblage of forms, the work of 
different ages, and built according to the taste and skill 
of distant and changing times. Some portions are new, 
some old and covered with lichens, mosses, and creep¬ 
ing plants. Here is a portico of the days of Trajan, and 
there a tower that seems as if it were of the times of the 
republic. Yetis there a certain harmony and congruity 
running through the whole, for the material used is 
everywhere the same — a certain fawn-colored stone 
drawn from the quarries in the neighborhood ; and each 
successive owner and architect has evidently paid some 
regard to preceding erections in the design and propor¬ 
tions of the part he has added. In this unity of char¬ 
acter, as well as in the separate beauty or greatness ot 
distinct parts, is it made evident that persons of accom¬ 
plishment and rank have alone possessed it. Of its 
earlier history all that Curtius has with certainty ascer¬ 
tained is, that it was once the seat of the great Horten- 
sius, before he had, in the growth of his fame and his 
riches, displayed his luxurious tastes in the wonders of 
Tusculum, Bauli, or Laurentum. It was the first indi-^ 


132 


A U R E L I A N. 


cation giren by him of that love of elegant and lavish 
wastefulness, that gave him at last as wide a celebrity 
as his genius. The part which he built is well known, 
and although of moderate dimensions, yet displays the 
rudiments of that taste that afterward was satisfied only 
with more than imperial magnificence. Marcus has 
satisfied himself as to the very room which he occupied 
as his study and library, and where he prepared him¬ 
self for the morning courts ; and in the same apartment 
— hoping as he sa^ s to catch something from the genius 
of the place — does he apply himself to the same pro¬ 
fessional labors. His name and repute are now second 
to none in Rome. Yet, young as he is, he begins to 
weary of the bar, and woo the more quiet pursuits of 
letters and philosophy. Nay, at the present moment, 
agriculture claims all his leisure, and steals time that 
can ill be spared from his clients. Varro and Cato have 
more of his devotion than statutes and precedents. 

In the disposition of the grounds, Marcus has shown 
that he inherits something of the tastefulness of his 
remote predecessor ; and in the harv’^est that covers his 
extensive acres, gives equal evidence that he has 
studied, not without profit, the labors of those who have 
written upon husbandry and its connected arts. Varro 
especially is at his tongue’s end. 

We soon came to the quarter of the slaves — a village 
almost of the humble tenements occupied by this mis¬ 
erable class. None but the women, children, sick and 
aged, were now at home — the. young and able-bodied 
being abroad at work. No new disturbances have 
broken out, he tells me ; the former severity, followed 
by a well-timed lenity, having subdued or conciliato- 


\ 


A U R E L I A N . 


133 


all. Curtius, although fond of power and of ail its 
ensigns, yet conceals not his hatred nJT this institution, 
which has so long obtained in the Koman state, as in 
all states. He can devise no way of escape from it ; 
but he sees in it the most active and general cause ol 
the corruption of morals which is spread everywhere 
where it prevails. He cannot suppress his contempt of 
the delusion or hypocrisy of our ancestors in terming 
themselves republicans. 

‘ What a monstrous solecism was it,’ he broRe out 
with energy, ‘ in the times preceding the empire, to call 
that a free country which was built upon the degrada¬ 
tion and slavery of half of its population. Rome never 
was a republic. It was simply a faction of land and 
slave holders, who blinded and befooled the ignorant 
populace, by parading before them some of the forms of 
liberty, but kept the power in their own hands. They 
were a community of petty kings, which was better in 
their mind than only one king, as in the time of the Tar- 
quins. It was a republic of kingdoms and of kings, if 
you will. Now and then, indeed, the people bustled 
about and shook their chains, as in the times of the in¬ 
stitution of the tribune’s office, and those of the Grac¬ 
chi. But they gained nothing. The patricians were 
still the kings who ruled them. And among no people 
can there be liberty where slavery exists — liberty, I 
mean, properly so called. He who holds slaves cannot, 
in the nature of things, be a republican ; but, in the na¬ 
ture of things, he is on the other hand a despot. I am 
one. And a nation of such individuals is an association 
of despots for despotic purposes, and nothing else not 
12 VOL. I. 


^34 


AU R E LI A N. 


better. Liberty in their mouths is a jirofanation of the 
sacred name. It signifies nothing but their liberty to 
reign. I confess, it is to those vvho happen to be the 
kings a very agreeable state of things. I enjoy my 
power and state mightily. But I am not blind to the 
fact — my own experience teaches it— that it is a state 
of things corrupt and rotten to the heart — destructive 
everywhere of the highest form of the human character. 
It nurses and brings out the animal, represses and em- 
brutes the god that is within us. It makes of man a 
being of violence, force, passion, and the narrowest sel¬ 
fishness ; while reason and humanity, which should 
distinguish him, are degraded and oppressed. Such 
men are not the stuff that republics are made of. A re¬ 
public may endure for a time in spite of them, owing to 
fortunate circumstances of another kind ; but wherever 
they obtain a preponderance in the state, liberty will 
expire, or exist only in the insulting forms in which she 
waved her bloody sceptre during most of our early hiv> 
tory. Slavery and despotism are natural allies.’ 

‘ I rejoice,’ I said, ‘ to find a change in you, at least 
in the theory which you adopt.’ 

‘ I certainly am changed,’ he replied ; ‘ and such a6 
the change may be, is it owing, sir Christian, to thy 
calm and yet fiery epistles from Palmyra. Small 
thanks do I owe thee for making me uncomfortable in 
a position from which I cannot escape. Once proud of 
my slaves and my power, I am already ashamed oi 
both ; but while my principles have altered, my habits 
a)id character, which slavery has created and nurseo 
remain beyond any power of man, so far as I can sec, 
to change them. What they are, you well know. So 


aurelian. 


135 


ihat here, in my middle age, I suffer a retribution, that 
should have been reserved till I had been dismissed 
from the dread tribunal of Rhadamanthus.’ 

‘I see not, Curtius, why you should not escape from 
the position you are in, if you sincerely desire it, which 
I suppose you do not.’ 

‘ That, to be honest — which at least I am — is I be¬ 
lieve the case.’ 

‘ I do not doubt it, as it is with all who are situated 
like yourself. Most, however, defend the principle as 
well as cling to the form of slavery.’ 

‘ Nay, that I cannot do. That I never did, since my 
beard was grown. I fancy myself to have from the 
gods a good heart. He is essentially of a corrupt heart 
who will stand for slavery in its principle. He is with¬ 
out anything generous in his nature. Cold selfishness 
marks and makes him. But supposing I as sincerely 
desired to escape — as I sincerely do not — what, 0 
most wise mentor, should be the manner ?’ 

‘ First and at once, to treat them no longer as slaves, 
but as men.’ 

‘ That ! am just beginning to do. What else ?’ 

‘ If you are sincere, as I say, and moreover, if you 
possess the exalted and generous traits which we pa¬ 
tricians ever claim for ourselves, show it them by giv¬ 
ing their freedom one by one to those who are now 
slaves, even thcbugh it result in the loss of one half of 
your fortune. That will be a patrician act. What was 
begun in crime by others, cannot be perpetuated withou". 
equal crime in us. The enfranchised will soon mingle 
with the people, and, as we see every day, become one 
with it This process is going on at this moment, in all 


136 


AURELIA N. 


my estates. Before my will is executed, I shall hopfl 
to have disposed in this manner of every slave in mj 
possession.’ 

‘ One can hardly look to emulate such virtues as this 
new-found Christian philosophy seems to have engen¬ 
dered within thy noble bosom, Piso ; but the subject 
mu?i be weighed. There is nothing so agreeable in 
prospect as to do right ; but, like some distant stretches 
of land and hill, water and wood, the beauty is all gone 
as it draws near. It is then absolutely a source of pain 
and disgust. I will write a treatise upon the great 
theme.’ 

‘ If you write, Curtius, I shall despair of any action, 
all your philanthropy will evaporate in a cloud of 
words.’ 

‘ But that will be the way, I think, to restore my 
equanimity. I believe I shall feel quite easy after a 
little declamation. Here, Lucius, regale thyself upon 
these grapes. These are from the isles of the Grecian 
Archipelago, and for sweetness are not equalled by any 
of our own. Gallus, Gallus, go not so near to the edge 
of the pond ; it is deep, as I have warned you. I have 
lampreys there, Piso, bigger than any that Hortensius 
ever wept for. Gallus, you dog ! away, I say.’ 

But Gallus heeded not the command of his father. 
He already was beginning to have a little will of his 
own. He continued playing upon the margin of the 
water, throwing in sticks for his dog to bring to him 
again. Perceiving his danger to be great, I went to him 
and forcibly drew him away, he and his dog setting up 
a frightful music of screams and yelping. Marcu« was 
both entertained and amazed at thp feat. 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


137 


Piso,’ he jocosely cried out, ‘ there is a good deal of 
the old republican in you. You even treat free men as 
slaves. That boy — a man in will — never had before 
such restraint upon his liberty.’ 

‘ Liberty with restraint,’ I answered, ‘ operating upon 
all, and equally upon all, is the true account of a state 
of freedom. Gallus unrestrained is a slave — a slave of 
passion and the sport of chance. He is not truly free 
until he is bound.’ 

With such talk we amused ourselves as we wandered 
over the estate, through its more wild and more culti¬ 
vated parts. Dinner was presently announced, and we 
hastened to the house. 

Lucilia awaited us in a small six-sided cabinet, fitted 
up purposely for a dining-room for six or eight persons. 
It was wholly cased with a rich marble of a pale yellow 
hue, beautifully panelled, having three windows open¬ 
ing upon a long portico with a southern aspect, set out 
with exotics in fancifully arranged groups. The mar¬ 
ble panels of the room were so contrived that, at a 
touch, they slipped aside and disclosed in rich array, 
here the choicest wines, there sauces and spices of a 
thousand sorts, and there again the rarest confections 
brought from China and the East. Apicius himself 
could have fancied nothing more perfect—for the least 
dissatisfaction with the flavor of a dish, or the kind of 
wine, could be removed by merely reaching out the 
hand and drawing, from an inexhaustible treasure-house, 
both wines and condiments, such as scarce Rome itselJ 
could equal. This was an apartment contrived avi 
built by Hortensius himself. 

12* VOL. I. 


138 


A U R E L I A N . 


The dinner was worthy the room and its builder, the 
marbles, the prospect, the guest, the host, and the 
hostess. The aforementioned Apicius would have nev¬ 
er once thought of the panelled cupboards. No dish 
would have admitted of addition or alteration. 

When the feasting was over, and with it the lighter 
conversation, and more disjointed and various, which 
usually accompanies it, Marcus arose, and withdrawing 
one of the sliding panels, with much gravity and state, 
drew forth a glass pitcher of exquisite form filled with 
wine, saying, as he did so, 

‘ All, Piso, that you have as yet tasted is but as water 
of the Tiber to this. This is more than nectar. The 
gods have never been so happy as to have seen the 
like. I am their envy. It is Falernian, that once 
saw the wine vaults of Heliogabalus ! Not a drop of 
Chian has ever touched it. It is pure, unadulterate. 
Taste, and be translated.’ 

I acknowledged, as I well might, its unequalled flavor. 

‘ This nectarean draught,’ he continued, ‘ I even con¬ 
sider to possess purifying and exalting qualities. He 
who drinks it is for the time of a higher nature. It is 
better for the temper than a chapter of Seneca or Epic¬ 
tetus. It brings upon the soul a certain divine calm, 
favorable beyond any other state to the growth of the 
virtues. Could it become of universal use, mankind 
were soon a race of gods. Even Christianity were then 
made unnecessary — admitting it to be that unrivalled 
moral engine which you Christians affirm it to be. It 
is favorable also to dispassionate discussion, Piso, a little 
^ which I would now invite. Know you not, I have 
scarce seen you since your assumption of your new 


AU KE LI A N. 


139 


name and faith ? What bad demon possessed you, in 
evil hoar, to throw Rome and your friends into such a 
ferment ? ’ 

‘ Had you become, Lucius,’ said Lucilia, ‘ a declaim¬ 
ing advocate of Epicurus, or a street-lecturer upon 
Plato, or turned priest of Apollo’s new temple, it would 
have all been quite tolerable, though amazing — but 
Christian ! ’— 

‘ Yes, Lucius, it is too bad,’ added Marcus. ‘ If you 
were in want of moral strength, you would have done 
better to have begged some of my Falernian. You 
should not have been denied.’ 

‘ Or,’ said Lucilia, ‘ some of my Smyrna cordial.’ 

‘ At least,’ continued Marcus, ‘ you might have come 
to me for some of my wisdom, which I keep ready, at a 
moment’s warning, in quantities to suit all applicants ’ 

‘ Or to me,’ said Lucilia, ‘ for some of my every day 
good-sense, which, you know, I possess in such abun¬ 
dance, though I have not sat at the feet of philoso¬ 
phers.’ 

‘ But seriously, Lucius,’ began Marcus in altered 
mood, ‘ this is a most extraordinary movement of 
yours. I should like to be able to interpret it. If you 
must needs have what you call religion, of which I, for 
my part, can see no earthly occasion, here were plenty 
of forms in which to receive it, more ancient and more 
respectable than this of the Christians.’ 

‘ 1 am almost unwilling to converse on this topic with 
you, Marcus,’ I rejoined, ‘ for there is nothing in your 
nature, or rather in your educated nature, to which tr. 
appeal with the least hope of any profitable result, either 
‘A me, or you. The gods have, as ymu say, given yo\t 


140 


A U R E L I A N . 


a good heart — 1 may add too, a most noble head ; but, 
yourself and education together, have made you so 
thoroughly a man of the world, that the interests of 
any other part of your nature, save those of the intellect 
and the senses, are to you precisely as if they did not 
exist.’ 

‘ Right, Lucius ; therein do I claim honor and distinc¬ 
tion. The intangible, the invisible, the vague, the shad* 
awy, I leave to women and priests — concerning myself 
..nly with the substantial realities of life. Great Jupi¬ 
ter ! what would become of mankind were we all wom¬ 
en, and priests ? How could the courts go on— senates 
sit, and deliberate — armies conquer? I think the world 
would stand still. However, I object not to a popular 
faith, such as that which now obtains throughout the 
Roman world. If mankind, as history seems to prove, 
must and will have something of the kind, this perhaps 
is as good as anything else ; and, seeing it has once be¬ 
come established and fixed in the way it has, I think it 
ought no more to be disturbed than men’s faith in theii 
political institutions. Our concern should be, merely to 
regulate it, that it grow not too large, and so overlay 
and crush the state. Fanatics and bigots must be hewn 
away. There must be an occasional infusion of doubt 
and indifference into the mass, to keep it from ferment¬ 
ing. You camiot be offended, Lucius, at the way in 
which I speak of your new-adopted faith. I think no 
better of any other. Epicureans, Stoics, Platonists, 
Jews, Christians, they are all alike to me. I hold them 
all at arms length. I have listened to them all ; and 
more idle, indigested fancies never did I bear— no, no* 


A U R E L I A N . 


14] 


from the new-fledged advocate playing the rhetorician 
at his first appearance.’ 

‘ I do not wonder, Curtins, that you have turned away 
dissatisfied with the philosophers. I do not wonder 
that you reject the popular superstitions. But I do 
wonder, that you will prejudge any question, or infer 
the intrinsic incredibility of whatever may take the form 
of religion, from the intrinsic incredibility of what the 
world has heretofore possessed. It surely is not a phi¬ 
losophical method.’ 

‘ Not in other things, I grant,’ replied Marcus ; ‘ but 
concerning this question of popular superstition, or reli¬ 
gion, the only philosophical thing is, to discard the 
A^hole subject, as one deserving severe investigation. 
The follies which the populace have, in all nations, and 
:n all time, adopted, let them be retained, and even de¬ 
fended and supported by the State. They perform a not 
unimportant office in regulating the conduct, and man¬ 
ners of men—in preserving a certain order in the 
world. But beyond this, it seems to me, the subject is 
unworthy the regard of a reflecting person. One world 
and one life is enough to manage at a time. If there 
be others, and if there be a God who governs them, it 
will be time enough to know these things when they are 
made plain to the senses, as these trees and hills now 
aVv., and your well-shaped form. This peering into fu¬ 
turity, in the expectation to arrive at certainty, seems to 
me much as if one should hope to make out the forms 
of cities, palaces, and groves, by gazing into the empty 
air,' or on the clouds. Besides, of what use ? ’ 

‘ Of what use indeed ?’ added Lucilia. ‘ I want no 
director or monito.*, concerning any duty or act, which 


:42 


A T] R E L I A N . 


it falls to me to perform, other than I 6nd within me. 1 
have no need of a divine messenger, to stand ever at my 
side, to tell me what I must do, and what I must for¬ 
bear. I have within me instincts and impulses, which 
I find amply sufficient. The care and duty of every 
day is very much alike, and a little experience and ob¬ 
servation, added to the inward instinct, makes me quite 
superior to most difficulties and evils as they arise. The 
gods, or whatever power gave us our nature, have not 
left us dependent for these things, either on what is 
called religion or philosophy.’ 

‘ What you say,’ I rejoined, ‘ is partly true. The 
gods have not left us dependent exclusively, upon either 
religion, or philosophy. There is a natural religion of 
the heart and the conscience, which is born with us, 
grows up with us, and never forsakes us. But then, 
after all, how defective and incomplete a principle it 
is. It has chiefly to do, only with our daily conduct ; 
it cannot answer our doubts, or satisfy our most real 
wants. It differs too with the constitution of the indi¬ 
vidual. In some, it is a principle of much greater value 
and efficacy, than in others. Your instincts are clear, 
and powerful, and direct you aright. But, in another, 
they are obscure, and weak, and leave the mind in the 
greatest perplexity. It is by no means all that they 
want. Then, are not the prevalent superstitions most 
injurious in their influences upon the common mind ? 
Can you doubt, whether more of good or evil, is derived 
to the soul, from the ideas it entertains of the character, 
and providence of the gods ? Can you be insensible to 
♦he horrible enormities, and nameless vices, which make 
jL y>art, even of what is called religion ? And is ther^ 


A D IL £ L Ian. 


113 


no need — if men will have religion m some form — 
that they should receive it in a better one ? Can you 
noi conceive of such views of God and his worship, of 
duty, virtue, and immortality being presented, that they 
shall strike the mind as reasonable in themselves, and 
of beneficial instead of hftrtful power, upon being adop¬ 
ted ? Can yon not imagine your own mind, and the 
minds of people generally, to be so devoted to a high 
and sublime conception of the Divinity, and of futurity, 
as to be absolutely incapable of an act, that should dis¬ 
please him, or forfeit the hope of immortality ? ’ 

‘ Hardly,’ said Marcus and Lucilia. 

‘ Well, suppose it were so. Or rather, if you cannot 
imagine such a state of things, multitudes can. You 
are not a fair specimen of our kind, but only of a com¬ 
paratively small class. Generally — so I have found it 
~ the mind is seeking about for something better than 
what any human system has as yet proposed, and is 
confident of nothing more than of this, that men may 
be put in possession of truths, that shall carry them on 
as far beyond what their natural instincts now can do, 
as these instincts carry them on beyond any point to 
which the brutes ever arrive. This, certainly, was my 
own conviction, before I met with Christianity. Now, 
Marcus and Lucilia, what is this Christianity, but a rev¬ 
elation from Heaven, whose aim is to give to you, and 
to all, such conceptions of God, and futurity, as I have 
just spoken of ? '—I then, finding that I had obtained a 
hearing, went into an account of the religion of Christ, 
as I had received it from the books themselves, and 
which to you I need not repeat. They listened with 
considerable patience — though I was carefr not to ’'-'e 


J44 


AURELIAN. 


many words — but without any expression of coui ten- 
ance, or manner, that indicated any very favorable 
change in their opinions or feelings. As I ended, Mar* 
cus said, 

‘ I shall always think better of this religion, Lucius, 
that you have adopted it, though I cannot say that your 
adopting it, will raise my judgment of you. I do not 
at pre:;ent see upon what grounds it stands so firm, or 
divine, that a citizen is d« f« risible in abandoning for it, 
an ostensible reception ( f, and faith in, the existing 
forms of the State. How 3/er, I incline to allow free¬ 
dom m these matters to s d olara and speculative minds. 
Let them work out and c rijt'y their own fancies — they 
are a restless, discontenteci, ambitiDus herd, and should, 
for the sake of their genii-s, bo humored in the particu¬ 
lar pursuits where they liave placed their happiness. 
But, when they leave tl^eir proper vocation, and turn 
propagators and reformeri, and aim at the subversion of 
things now firmly established and prosperous, then — 
although I myself should never meddle in such matters 
— it is scarcely a question whether the power of the 
State should interpose, and lay upon them the necessary 
restraints. Upon the whole, Lucius Piso, I think, that 
I, and Lucilia, had better turn preachers, and exhort 
you to return to the faith, or no-faith, which you have 
abandoned. Leave such things to take care of them» 
selves. What have you gained but making yourself an 
object of popular aversion or distrust ? You have aban¬ 
doned the community of the polite, the refined, the so¬ 
ber, where by nature you belong, and have associated 
yourself with a vulgar crevv, of—forgive my freedom, 
I .«peak the common judgment, that you may know what 


A U R E L I A N . 


145 


it is — of ignorant fanatics or crafty knaves, who care 
for you no further, than as by your great name, they 
may stand a little higher in the world. I protest, before 
Jupiter, that to save others like you from such loss, I 
feel tempted to hunt over the statute books for some 
law, now obsolete and forgotten, but not legally dead, 
that may be brought to bear upon this mischief, and 
give it another Decia^n blight, which, if it do not kill, 
may yet check, and obstruct its growth.’ 

I replied, ‘ that from him I could apprehend, he well 
knew, no such deed of folly or guilt — however likely 
it was that others might do it, and glory in their shame,* 
that his nature would save him from such a deed, though 
his principles might not.’ I told him, moreover, ‘that I 
did not despair of his looking upon Christianity with a 
favorable judgment in good time. He had been willing 
to hear ; and there was that secret charm in the truths 
and doctrines of Christ’s religion, and especially in his 
character, that, however rudely set forth, the mind could 
scarcely resist it; against its will, it would, oftentimes, 
find itself subdued and changed. The seeds I have 
now dropt upon your hearts, I trust, will some day 
spring up, and bear such fruit as you yourselves will 
rejoice in.’ 

‘ So,’ said Marcus, ‘ may the wheat spilled into the 
Tiber, or sown among rocks, or eaten by the birds.' 

‘ And that may be, though not to-day or to-morrow,’ 
I replied. ‘ The seed of things essential to man’s life, 
as of wheat, is not easily killed. It may be buried for 
years and years, yet, turned up at length, to the sun, 
and its life sprouts upward in leaf, and stem, and fruit 

13 VOL. I. 


/ 


146 


A U R E L I A N . 


Borne down by the waters of the Tiber, and apparently 
lost, it may be cast up upon the shores of Egypt, or Brit¬ 
ain, and fulfil its destiny. The seed of truth is longer- 
lived still — by reason that what it bears is more essen¬ 
tial than wheat, or other grain, to man’s best life.’ 

‘ Well, well,’ said Marcus, ‘ let us charge our goblets 
with the bottom of this Falernian, and forgetting 
whether there be such an entity as truth or not, drink 
to the health of the princess Julia.’ 

‘ That comes nearer our hearts,’ said Lucilia, ‘ than 
anything that has been spoken for the last hour. When 
you return, Lucius, Laco must follow you with a mule¬ 
load of some of my homely products ’- She was 

about to add more, when we were all alike startled and 
alarmed by cries, seemingly of deep distress, and rapid 
ly approaching. We sprang from our seats, when the 
door of the room was violently flung open, and a slave 
rushed in, crying out, 

‘ Oh, sir ! Gallus— Gallus’ — 

‘ What is it ? What is it ? ’ — cried Marcus and Lu- 
cilia. ‘ Speak quick — has he fallen— ’ 

‘ Yes, alas ! the pond — the fish-pond — run — fly_’ 

Distractedly we hurried to the spot already surround¬ 
ed by a crowd of slaves. ‘ Who had been with him ? 
Where had he fallen ? How did it happen V were ques¬ 
tions hastily asked, but which no one could answer. It 
was a miserable scene of agony, confusion, and despair 
— Marcus ordering his slaves ‘to dive into the jond, 
then uttering curses upon them, and commanding those 
to whom Gallus was usually entrusted, to the rack. No 
one could swim, no one could dive. It was lono- since 
I had made use of an art which I once possessed, but 



A U R E L I A N. 


147 


instantly 1 cast off my upper garments, and, needing no 
other direction to the true spot than the barking of the 
little dog, and his jumping in and out of the water — 
first learning that the water was deep, and of an even 
bottom, I threw myself in, and, in a moment, guided by 
the white dress of the little fellow, I grasped him, and 
drew him to the surface. 

Life was apparently, and probably, to my mind, ex¬ 
tinct ; but expressing a hope that means might yet be 
resorted to that should restore him, I bore him in imj 
arms to the house. But it was all in vain. Gallus 
was dead. 

I shall not inflict a new sadness upon you, Fausta, by 
describing the grief of my friends, or any of the inci¬ 
dents of the days and weeks I now passed with them. 
They were heavy, and melancholy indeed ; for the sor¬ 
rows, of both Lucilia and Marcus, were excessive and 
inconsolable. I could do nothing for them, nor say 
anything to them in the hope to comfort them ; yet, 
while they were thus incapacitated for all action, I could 
serve them essentially by placing myself at the head 
of their affairs, and relieving them of common cares and 
duties, that must otherwise have been neglected, or 
have proved irksome and oppressive. 

The ashes of Gallus, committed to a small marble 
urn, have been deposited in a tomb in the centre of 
Lucilia’s flower garden, which will soon be embowered 
by flowers and shrubs, which her hand will delight to 
train around it. 

On the eve of the day when I was to leave them and 
return to Rome, we sat together in a portico which 


AUrtLLiAN. 


i.4S 

overlooks the Tiber. Marcus and Lucilia were sad, 
but, at length, in some sort, calm. The first violence 
of sorrow had spent itself, and reflection was beginning 
to succeed. 

‘ I suppose,’ said Marcus, ‘ your rigid faith greatly 
condemns all this show of suffering, which you have 
witnessed, Piso, in us, as, if not criminal, at least weak 
and childish ? ’ 

‘ Not so, by any means,’ I rejoined. ‘The religion of 
the Christians, is what one may term a natural religion ; 
it does violence to not one of the good affections and 
propensities. Coming, as we maintain, from the Creator 
of our bodies and our minds, it does them no injury, it 
wars not with any of their natural elements, but most 
strictly harmonizes with them. It aims to direct, to 
modify, to heal, to moderate — but never to alter or an¬ 
nihilate. Love of our offspring, is not more according 
to our nature, than grief for the loss of them. Grief, 
therefore, is innocent — even as praiseworthy, as love. 
What trace of human wisdom — much less of divine — 
would there be in the arrangement, that should first 
bind us by chains of affection as strong as adamant to 
a child, or a parent, or a friend, and then treat the sor¬ 
row as criminal that wept, with whatever violence, as it 
saw the links broken and scattered, never again to be 
joined together ? ’ 

‘ That certainly is a proof that some just ideas are to 
be found in your opinions,’ replied my friend. ‘ By 
nothing was I evei more irreconcilably offended in the 
stoical philosophy, than by its harsh violence towards 
nature under suffering. To be treated by your philos* 
onhy with rudeness and contempt, because you yi'dd u 


A U fl E L I A N. 


140 


emotions which are as natural, anu, therefore, in mv 
judg-inent, as innocent as any, is, as if one were struck 
with violence by a friend or a parent, to whom you fled 
for protection or comfort. The doctrines of all the 
others failed in the same way. Even the Epicureans 
hold it a weakness, and even a wrong, to grieve, seeing 
the injury that is thereby done to happiness. Grief 
must be suppressed, and banished, because it is accom¬ 
panied by pain. That too, seemed to me a false 
sentiment ; because, although grief is indeed in some 
sort painful, yet it is not wholly so, but is attended by a 
kind of pleasure. How plain it is, that I should suffer 
greatly more, were I forcibly restrained by a foreign 
power, or my own, from shedding these tears, and ut¬ 
tering these sighs for Gallus, than I do now while I am 
free to indulge my natural feelings. In truth, it is the 
only pleasure that grief brings with it — the freedom of 
indulging it.’ 

‘ He,’ I said, as Marcus paused, giving way afresh to 
his sorrow, ‘ who embraces the Christian doctrine, is 
never blamed, condemned, or ridiculed by it for the in¬ 
dulgence of the emotions, to which, the loss of those 
whom we love, gives birth. But then, at the same time, 
he will probably grieve and suffer much less under 
such circumstances than you — not, however, because 
he is forcibly restrained, but because of the influence 
upon his mind and his heart, of truths and opinions, 
which, as a Christian, he entertains, and which, without 
any will or act of his own, work within him and 
strengthen and console him. The Christian believing, 
BO firmly as he does, for example, in a God, not only on 
13* VOL. I. 


A cr ft E L I A N . 


[;>o 

grounds >f reason but of express revelation, and tba 
this God is a parent, exercising a providence over his 
creatures, regardless of none, loving as a parent all, 
who has created mankind, not for his own amusement 
or honor, but that life and happiness might be diffused : 
they who believe thus, must feel very differently under 
adversity, from those who, like yourself, believe nothing 
of it at all, and from those who, like the disciples of the 
Porch and the Academy, believe but an inconsiderable 
part of it. Suppose, Marcus and Lucilia, your whole 
population of slaves were, instead of strangers and 
slaves, your children, toward whom you experienced 
the same sentiments of deep affection that y»ou did to¬ 
ward Gallus, how would you not consult for their hap¬ 
piness ; and how plain it is, that whatever laws you 
might set over them, they would be laws of love, the 
end of which, however they might not always recognize 
it, wmuld be their happiness — happiness through their 
virtue. This may represent, with sufficient exactness, 
the light in which Christians regard the Divinity, and 
the laws of life under which they find themselves. Ad¬ 
mitting, therefore, their faith to be well founded, and 
how maoi/est is it that they will necessarily suffer less 
under adversity than you ; and not because any vio¬ 
lence is done to their nature, but because of the benig¬ 
nant influences of such truths.’ 

‘ What you say,’ observed Lucilia, ‘ affects the mind 
very agreeably ; and gives a pleasing idea, both of the 
wisdom and mercy of the Christian faith. It seems at 
any rate to be suited to such creatures as we are. What 
It pity that it is so difficuU to discern truth.’ 


A U R E L I A N . 


J5i 

‘ ft is d .jtficult,’ I replied ; ‘ the best things are always 
60 : but it is not impossible ; what is necessary to our 
happiness, is never so. A mind of common powers, 
well disposed, seeking with a real desire to find, will 
rarely retire from the search wholly unsuccessful. The 
great essentials to our daily well-being, and the right 
conduct of life, the Creator has supplied through our 
instincts. Your natural religion, of which you have 
spoken, you find sufficient for most of the occurrences 
which arise, both of doing and bearing. But there are 
other emergencies for which it is as evidently insuf¬ 
ficient. Now, as the Creator has supplied so perfectly 
in all breasts the natural religion, which is so essential, 
it is fair to say and believe, that He would not make 
additional truths, almost equally essential to our happi¬ 
ness, either of impossible attainment, or encompassed by 
difficulties which could not, with a little diligence and 
perseverance, be overcome.’ 

‘ It would seem so, certainly,’ said Marcus ; ' but it is 
so long since I have bestowed any thought upon philo¬ 
sophical inquiries, that to me the labor would be very 
great, and the difficulties extreme—for, at present, there 
is scarcely so much as a mere shred or particle of faith, 
to which as a nucleus other truths may attach them¬ 
selves. In truth, I never look even to possess any 
clear faith in a God—it seems to be a subject wholly be¬ 
yond the scope and grasp of my mind. I cannot enter¬ 
tain the idea of self-existence. I can conceive of God 
neither as one, nor as divided into parts. Is he infinite 
and everywhere, himself constituting his universe ? — 
then he is scarcely a God ; or, is he a being dwelling 
apart from his works, and watching their obedience to 


152 


U R E L T A N . 


t.ieir imposed laws ? In neither of these conceptions 
can 1 rest.’ 

‘ It is not strange,’ I replied ; ‘ nor that, refusing to 
believe in the fact of a God until you should be able to 
comprehend him perfectly, you should to this hour be 
without faith. If I had waited before believing, until I 
understood, I should at this moment be as faithless as 
you, or as I was before I received Christianity. Do I 
comprehend the Deity? Can I describe the mode of his 
being ? Can I tell you in what manner he sprang into 
existence ? And whether he is necessarily everywhere 
in his works, and as it were constituting them ? Or 
whether he has power to contract himself, and dwell 
apart from them, their omniscient observer, and omnipo¬ 
tent Lord? I know nothing of all this ; the religion 
which I receive, teaches nothing of all this. Christian¬ 
ity does not demonstrate the being of a God, it simply 
proclaims it ; hardly so much as that indeed. It sup¬ 
poses it, as what was already well known and generally 
believed. I cannot doubt that it is left thus standing by 
itself, untaught and unexplained, only because the sub¬ 
ject is intrinsically incomprehensible by us. It is a 
great fact or truth, which all can receive, but which none 
can explain or prove. If it is not believed, either in¬ 
stinctively, or through the recognition of it, and declar¬ 
ation of it, in some revelation, it cannot be believed at 
all. It needs the mind of God to comprehend God. 
The mind of man is no more competent to reach and 
grasp the theme through reason, than his hands are to 
mould a sun. All the reasonings, imaginations, guesses, 
9t self-styled philosophers, are here like the prattlingg 


A U R E L I A N . 


\5:s 

of children. They make you smile, but they do no* 
instruct.’ 

‘ I fear,’ said Marcus, ‘ I shall then never believe, for 
I can believe nothing of which I cannot form a concep¬ 
tion.’ 

‘ Surely,’ I answered, ‘ our faith is not bounded by 
our conceptions, or our knowledge, in other things. We 
build the loftiest palaces and temples upon foundations 
of stone, though we can form no conception whatever 
of the nature of a stone. So I think we may found a 
true and sufficient religion on our belief in the fact of a 
God, although we can form no conception whatever of 
his nature and the mode of his existence.’ 

But I should fatigue you, Fausta, were I to give you 
more of our conversation. It ran on equally pleasant, 
I believe, to all of us, to a quite late hour ; in which 
time, almost all that is peculiar to the faith of the Chris¬ 
tians came under our review. It was more than mid¬ 
night when we rose from our seats to retire to our 
chambers. But before we did that, a common feeling 
directed our steps to the tomb of Gallus, which was but 
a few paces from where we had been sitting. There 
these childless parents again gave way to their grief 
and was I stone, that I should not weep with them ? 

When this act of duty and piety had been performed, 
we sought our pillows. As for me, I could not sleep 
for thinking of my friends and their now desolate house 
For even to me, who was to that child almost a stran 
ger, and had been so little used to his presence, this 
place is no longer the same : all its brightness, life, and 
spirit of gladness, are gone. Everything seems changed 
From every place and scene something seems to hav« 


154 


A U R E L I A N . 


Deen subtracted to which they were indebted for what 
ever it was tha/ made them attractive. U this is so to 
me, what must it be to Marcus and Lucilia ^ It is not 
difficult to see that a sorrow has settled upon their 
hearts, which no length of time can heal. I suppose if 
all their estates had been swept away from them in a 
night, and all their friends, they would not have been so 
overwhelmed as by this calamity — in such a wmnderful 
manner were they each woven into the child, and all 
into each other, as one being. They seem no longer to 
me like the same persons. Not that they are not often 
calm, and in a manner possessed of themselves ; but 
that even then, when they are most themselves, there 
has a dulness, a dreamy absence of mind, a fixed sad¬ 
ness, come over them that wholly changes them. 
Though they sit and converse with you, their true 
thoughts seem far away. They are kind and courteous 
as ever, to the common eye, but I can see that all the 
relish of life and of intercourse is now to them gone. 
All is flat and insipid. The friend is coldly saluted ; 
the meal left untasted, or partaken in silence and soon 
abandoned ; the affairs of the household left to others, 
to any who wdll take charge of them. They tell me 
that this will always be so ; that however they may 
seem to others, they must ever experience a sense of 
loss ; not any less than they would if a limb had been 
shorn away. A part of themselves, and of the life of 
every day and hour, is taken from them. 

How strange is all this, even in tbs light of Christian 
faith ! How inexplicable, we are ready to say, by any 
reason of ours, the providence of God in taking away 
the human being in the first blossoming ; before the 


A U R E L I A N . 


155 


fruit has even shown itself, much less ripened I Yet is 
not iininortalit}^, the hope, the assurance of immortality, 
a suflicient solution? To me it is. This will not in¬ 
deed cure our sorrows — they spring from somewhat 
wholly independent of futurity, of either the hope, or 
despair of it, — but it vindicates the ways of the Omni¬ 
potent, and justifies them to our reason and our affec¬ 
tions. W^ill Marcus and Lucilia ever rejoice in the 
consolations which flow from this hope ? Alas ! I 
fear not. They seem in a manner to be incapable of 
belief. 

In the morning I shall start for Rome. As soon as 
there, you shall hear from me again. Farewell. 


While Piso was absent from Rome on this visit to his 
friend, it was my fortune to be several times in the city 
upon necessary affairs of the illustrious Queen, when I 
was both at the palace of Aurelian and that of Piso. It 
was at one of these later visits, that it became apparent 
to me, that the Emperor seriously meditated the imposing 
of restrictions of some kind upon the Christians ; yet no 
such purpose was generally apprehended by that sect 
itself, nor by the people at large. The dark and disas¬ 
trous occurrences on the day of the dedication, were va¬ 
riously interpreted by the people ; some believing them 
to point at the Christians, some at the meditated expe¬ 
dition of the Emperor, some at Aurelian himself. The 
popular mind was, however, greatly inflamed against 
the Christians, and every art was resorted to by the 
priests of the temples, and those who were as bigoted 
and savage as themselves among the people, to fan to f 



A U R E L I A N. 


15(i 

devouring flan.e the little fire that began be kin¬ 
dled. The voice from the temple, however s-jme might 
with Pronto himself doubt whether it were not from 
Heaven, was for the most part ascribed to the Chris¬ 
tians, although they could give no explanation of the 
manner in which it had been produced. But, as in the 
case of Aurelian himself, this was forgotten in the 
horror occasioned by the more dreadful language of the 
omens, which, in such black and threatening array, no 
one remembered ever to have been witnessed before. 
None thought or talked of anything else. It was the 
universal theme. 

This may be seen in a conversation which I had with 
a rustic, whom I overtook as I rode toward Rome, seat¬ 
ed on his mule, burdened on either side and behind with 
the multifarious produce of his farm. The fellow, as I 
drew near to him, seeming of a less churlish disposition 
than most of those whom one meets upon the road vho 
will scarcely return a friendly salute, I feared r.oi to 
accost him. After giving him the customary good 
wishes, I remarked upon the excellence of the vegeta¬ 
bles which he had in his panniers. 

‘ Yes,’ he said, ‘ these lettuces are good, but not w'hat 
they would have been but for the winds we have had 
from the mountains. It has sadly nipped them. I hear 
the Queen pines away just as my plants do. I live at 
Norenturn. I know you, sir, though you cannot know 
me. You pass by my door on your way to the city. 
My children often call me from my work to look up, for 
there goes the secretary of the good Queen on his great 
horse. There’s no such horse as that on the road. 
Ha, ha, my baskets reach but to your knee ! Well, 


157 


A U R E L I A N. 

•here are differences in animals and m men too. So 
the gods will it. One rides upon a horse with golden 
bits, another upon a mule with none at all. Still I say, 
let the gods be praised.’ 

‘ The gods themselves could hardly help such differ¬ 
ences,’ I said, ‘ if they made one man of more natural 
strength, or more natural understanding than another. 
In that case one would get more than another. And 
surely you would not have men all run in one mould — 
all five feet high, all weighing so much, all with one 
face, and one form, one heart, and one head ! The 
world were then dull enough.’ 

‘ You say true,’ he replied ; ‘ that is very good. If 
we were all alike, there would be no such thing as being 
rich or poor — no such thing as getting or losing. I 
fear it would be dull enough, as you say. But I did 
not mean to complain, sir. 1 believe I am contented 
with my lot. So long as I can have my little farm, 
with my garden and barns, my cattle and my poultry, 
a kind neighbor or so, and my priest and temple, I care 
for nothing more.’ 

‘ You have a temple then at Norentum ? ’ 

‘Yes, to Jupiter Pluvius. And a better priest has 
not Eome itself. It is his brother, some officer of the 
Emperor’s, I take these vegetables to. I hope to hear 
more this morning of what I heard something when I 
was last at market. And I think I shall, formas I learn, 
the city is a good deal stirred since the dedication the 
other day.’ ‘ I believe it is,’ I answered. ‘ But of 
what do vou look to hear, if I may ask ? Is ther< 
new^ from the East?’ 

14 


VOL. i 


A U R E L 1 A IN . 


15S' 

‘ 0 no, I think not of the East or the South. It was 
of something to be done about these Christians. Our 
temple, you must know, is half forsaken and more, of 
late. I believe that half the people of Norentum, if the 
truth were known, have turned Christians or Jews. 
Unless we wake up a little, our worship cannot be sup¬ 
ported, and our religion will be gone. And glad am I 
to hear, through our priest, that even the Emperor is 
alarmed, and believes something must be done. You 
know, than he, there is not a more devout man in Rome. 
So it is said. And one thing that makes me think so, 
is this. The brother of our priest, where I am going 
with these vegetables — here is poultry too, look ! you 
never saw fatter, I warrant you—told him that he knew 
it for certain, that the Emperor meant to make short 
work with even his own neice — you know who I mean 
—Aurelia, who has long been suspected to be a Chris¬ 
tian. And that’s right. If he punishes any, he ought 
not to spare his own.’ 

‘ That I suppose would be right. But why should 
ne punish any ? You need not be alarmed or offend¬ 
ed ; I am no Christian.’ 

‘ The gods be praised therefor ! I do not pretend to 
Ruow the whole reason why. But that seems to be the 
only way of saving the old religion ; and I don’t know 
what way you Can possibly have of showing that a re¬ 
ligion of yesterday is true, if a religion of a thousand 
years old is to be made out false. If religion is good 
for anything — and I for one think it is — I think men 
ought to be compelled to have it and support it, just as 
they should be to eat wholesome food, rather than poi- 
"^mous or hurtful The laws won’t permit us to carry 


AU RE LlAN. 


159 


cf'i'ain things to market, nor others in a certain state. 

we do, we are fined or imprisoned. Treat a Chris¬ 
tian in the same way, say I. Let them just go tho¬ 
roughly to work, and our temples will soon be filled 
again.’ 

‘ But these Christians,’ I observed, ‘ seem to be a 
harmless people.’ 

‘ But they have no religion, that anybody can call 
such. They have no gods, nor altars, nor sacrifices • 
such can never be harmless. To be sure, as to sacri¬ 
fices, I think there is such a thing as doing too much. 
I am not for human sacrifices. Nor do I see the need 
of burning up a dozen fat oxen or heifers, as was done 
the other day at the Temple of the Sun. We in No- 
rentum burn nothing but the hoofs and some of the en¬ 
trails, and the rest goes to the priest for his support. 
As I take it, a sacrifice is just a sign of readiness to do 
everything and lose everything for the gods. We are 
not expected to throw either ourselves, or our whole sub¬ 
stance upon the altar ; making the sign is sufficient. 
But, as I said, these Christians have no altar and no 
sacrifice, nor image of god or goddess. They have, at 
Norentum, an old ruinous building — once a market — 
where they meet for worship; but those who have been 
present say, that nothing is to be seen ; and nothing 
heard but prayers— to what god no one knows — and 
exhortations of the priests. Some say, that elsewhere 
they have what they call an altar, and adorn their walls 
with pictures and statues. However all this may be, 
there seems to be some charm about them, or their wor¬ 
ship, for all the world is running after them. I long for 
the news I shall get from Varenus Hirtius. If thesf 


A.UREL1AN . 


KiO 

omens have not set the Emperor at work for us, nothing 
will. Here we are at the gates, and I turn toward the 
Claudian market. May the day go happily with you.’ 

So we parted ; and I bent my way toward the gir 
dens of Sallust. 

As I moved slowly along through the streets, my 
heart was filled with pity for this people, the Chris¬ 
tians ; threatened, as it seemed to me, with a renewal 
of the calamities that had so many times swept over 
them before. They had ever impressed me as a simple- 
minded, virtuous community, of notions too subtle for 
the world ever to receive, but which, upon themselves, 
appeared to exert a power altogether beneficial. Many 
of this faith I had known well, and they were persons 
to excite my highest admiration for the characters 
which they bore. Need I name more than the princess 
Julia, and her husband, the excellent Piso ? Others 
like them, what wonder if inferior ! had also, both in 
Palmyra, and at Tibur and Rome — for they were to be 
found everywhere — drawn largely both on my respect 
and my affections. I beheld with sorrow the signs which 
now seemed to portend suffering and disaster. And 
my sympathies were the more moved seeing that never 
before had there been upon the throne a man who, if 
he were once entered into a war of opposition against 
them, had power to do them greater harm, or could 
have proved a more ste*"! and cruel enemy. Not even 
Nero or Domitian were ^n their time to be so much 
dreaded. For if Aurelian should once leagut him with 
the state against them, it would not with him be matter 
of mere cruel sport, but of conscience. It would be for 
die honor of the gods, the protection of religion, iho 


AURELIAN . 


161 


greatness and glory of the empire, that he would assail 
and punish them ; and the same fierce and bloody 
spirit that made him of all modern conquerors the 
bloodiest and fiercest, it was plain would rule him in 
any encounter with this humble and defenceless tribe. 
I could only hope that I w'as deceived, as well as others, 
in my apprehensions, or, if thet were not so, pray that 
the gods would be pleased to take their great subject 
to themselves. 

Full of such reflections and emotions I arrived at the 
palace, and was ushered into the presence of Livia. 
There was with her the melancholy Aurelia — for sucf 
she always seems — who appeared to have been en¬ 
gaged in earnest talk with the Empress, if one might 
judge by tears fast falling from her eyes. The only 
words which I caught as I entered were these from 
Aurelia, ‘ but, dear lady, if Mucapor require it not, why 
should others think of it so much ? Were he fixed, 
then should I indeed have to ask strength of God for 
the trial — ’ then, seeing me, and only receiving my 
salutations, she withdrew. 

Livia, after first inquiring concerning Zenobia and 
Fausiula, returning to what had just engaged her, said, 

‘ I wish, good Nicomachus, that I had your powers 
of speech, of which, as you can remember, I have been 
witness in former days — those happy days in Syria — 
when you used, so successfully, to withstand and subdue 
my giddy or headstrong mind. Here have I been for 
weary hours — not weary neither, for their aim has, I am 
^ure, been a worthy one — but, here have I been persua¬ 
ding, with all the reason and eloquence I could bring to 

14* VOL. i 


162 


A U R E L I A N . 


»ear, this self-willed girl to renounce these fantastic no 
Aons she has imbibed from the Christians, and their 
books, were it only for the sake of domestic peace. Au- 
relian is growing daily more and more exasperated 
against this obscure tribe, and drops, oftener than I love 
to hear them, dark hints of what awaits them, not ex¬ 
cepting, he says, any of whatever rank or name. Not 
that I suppose that either he, or the senate, would pro¬ 
ceed further than imprisonments, banishment, suppres¬ 
sion of free speech, the destruction of books and church¬ 
es ; so much indeed I understand from him. But even 
thus far, and we might lose Aurelia — a thing not to be 
thought of for a moment. He has talked with her him¬ 
self, reasoned with her, threatened her ; but in vain. 
Now he has imposed the same task upon me — it i.s 
equally in vain. I know not what to do.’ 

‘ Because,’ I replied, ‘ nothing can be done. Where 
it is possible to see, you have eyes within you that can 
penetrate the thickest darkness as well as any. But 
here you fail ; but only where none could succeed. A 
sincere honest mind, princess, is not to be changed ei¬ 
ther by persuasion or force. Its belief is not subject to 
the will. Aurelia, if I have heard aright, is a Christian 
from conviction. Evidence made her a Christian — 
stronger evidence on the side of her former faith can 
alone unmake her.’ 

‘ I cannot reason with her to that extent, Nicomachus,’ 
replied the Empress. ‘ I know not the grounds of the 
common faith, any more than those of Christianity. I 
only know that I wish Aurelia was not a Christian. 
Will you, Nicomachus, reason with her ? I remembei 
your logic of old.’ 


-A TJ R E L T A N. 


16:j 

‘ Alas, princess, I can engage in no such task ! 
Where I have no faith myself, I should in vain attempt 
to plant it in others. How, either, can I desire that anv 
mind should remain an hour longer oppressed by the 
childish and abominable superstitions which prevail in 
Rome ? I cannot but congratulate the excellent Au¬ 
relia, so far as the question of truth is concerned, that 
in the place of the infinite stupidities of the common 
religion, she has received the, at least, pure and reason¬ 
able doctrines of the Christians. You cannot surely, 
princess, desire her re-conversion ?’ 

‘ Only for her own sake, for the sake of her safety, 
comfort, happiness.’ 

‘ But in her judgment these are best and only secured 
where she now is. How thinks Mucapor ? ’ 

‘ As I believe,’ answered Livia, ‘ he cares not in the 
matter, save for her happiness. He will not wish that 
she should have any faith except such as she herself 
wishes. I have urged him to use his power to constrain 
her, hut he loves liberty himself too dearly, he says, to 
put force upon another.’ 

‘ That is right and noble,’ I said ; ‘ it is what I 
should have looked for from Mucapor.’ 

‘ In good sooth, Nicomachus, I believe you still take 
me but for what I was in Palmyra. Who am I ? ’ 

‘ From a princess you have become an Empress, Em¬ 
press of Rome, that I fully understand,, and I trust 
never to be wanting in the demeanor that best becomes 
a subject ; but you are still Livia, the daughter of 
Zenobia, and to her I feel I can never fear to speak 
rith sincerity.’ 

‘ How omnipotent, Nicomachus, are simplicity and 


164 


A U R E L I A N . 


truth ! They subdue me when I most would not. They 
have conquered me in Aurelia and nowin you. Well, 
well, Aurelia then must take the full weight of her 
uncle’s wrath, which is not light.’ 

At this moment Aurelian himself entered, accompan¬ 
ied by Fronto. Livia, at the same time, arose and 
withdrew, not caring, I thought, to meet the eyes of that 
basilisk, who, with the cunning of a priest, she saw to 
be usurping a power over Aurelian which belonged of 
right to her. I was about also to withdraw, but tht 
Emperor constraining me, as he often does, I remained, 
although holding the priest in still greater abhorrence, 
I believe, than Livia herself. 

‘ While you have been absent from the city, Fronto,’ 
said Aurelian, ‘ I have revolved the subjects upon 
which we last conversed, and no longer droubt where lie, 
for me, both duty, and the truest glory. The judgment 
of the colleges, lately rendered, agrees both with yours 
and mine. So that the very finger of the god we wor¬ 
ship points the way.’ 

‘ I am glad,’ replied Fronto, ‘ for myself, for you, for 
Rome, and for the world, that truth possesses and is to 
sway you. It will be a great day for Rome, greater 
than when your triumphal array swept through the 
streets with the world at your chariot-wheels, when the 
enemy that had so long waged successful war within 
the very gates, shall lie dead as the multitudes of 
Palmyra.’ 

‘ It will, Fronto. But first I have this to say, and, by 
the gods, I believe it true, that it is the corruptions of 
our own religion and its ministers, that is the oflence 
that smells to heaven, quite as much as the presump 


A U R E L I A N . 


165 


haous novelties of this of Judea. I perceive you neither 
assent to this nor like it. But it is true, I am persua¬ 
ded, as the gods themselves. I have long thought so ; 
and, (vhile with one hand, I aim at the Gallilean athe¬ 
ism, with the other, I shall aim at those who dishonor, 
by their vices and hypocrisies, the religion they profess 
to serve.’ 

Fronto was evidently disturbed. His face grew pale 
as the frown gathered and darkened on the brow of Au- 
relian. He answered not, and Aurelian went on. 

‘Hellenism, Fronto, is disgraced, and its very life 
threatened by the vices of her chief ministers. The 
gods forgive me ! in that, while I have purged my legions 
of drunkards and adulterers, I have left them in the 
temples. Truly did you say, I have had but one thought 
in my mind, I have looked but to one quarter of the 
heavens. My eyes are now unsealed, and I see both 
ways, and every way. How can we look for the favor 
of the gods, while their houses of worship, I speak it, 
Fronto, with sorrow and indignation, but with the know¬ 
ledge too of the truth of what I say, are houses of ap¬ 
pointment while the very inner sanctuaries, and the 
altars themselves, are little better than the common 
.stews, while the priests are the great fathers of iniquity, 
corrupters of innocence, the seducers of youth, examples 
themselves, beyond the fear of rivalry, of all the vice 
they teach ! At their tables, too, who so swollen wi*h 
meats and drink as the priests ? Who, but they, are a 
by-word, throughout the city, for all that is vilest ? 
What word but priest, stands, with all, as an abbrevia¬ 
tion and epitome, of whatever pollutes, and defiles the 
name of man ? Porphyrius says ‘ that since Jesus ha* 


A U R E L I A N . 


j(.i6 

been worshipped in Rome no one has found by experr 
ence the public assistance of the gods.’ I believe it ; 
and Rome will never again experience it till this black 
atheism is rooted out. But it is as true, I doubt not, 
thf» since their ministers have become ministers o^ 
demons, and, from teachers of morals, have turned in 
structers in vice — for this reason too, as well as for thf 
other, the justly offended deities of Rome have hid them 
selves from their impious worshippers. Here then 
Pronto, is a double labor to be undergone, a double duty 
to be done, not less than some or all of the labors of 
Hercules. We are set for this work, and, not till I 
have begun it — if not finished — will I so much as 
dream of Persia. What say you ? ’ 

Pronto looked like one who had kindled a larger 
flame than he intended, or knew well how to manage. 

‘ The faults of which you speak, great Emperor, it 
can be denied by none, are found in Rome, and can 
never be other than displeasing to the gods. But then, 
I would ask,when was it ever otherwise? In the earlier 
ages of the republic, I grant, there was a virtue in the 
people which we see not now. But that grew not out 
of the purer administration of religion, but was the 
product of the times in part — times, in comparison with 
these, of a primeval simplicity. To live well, was ea¬ 
sier then. Where no temptation is, virtue is easy, is 
necessary. But then it ceases to be virtue. It is a 
quality, not an acquisition— a gift of the gods, an ac¬ 
cident, rather than man’s meritorious work.’ 

‘ That is very true — well.’ 

‘ There may be as much real virtue now, as then. 
May it not be so ? ’ 


A U R E L I A N . 


167 


Perhaps — it may. What then ? ’ 

• Oui complaints of the present, should be softened, 
flut, what chiefly I would urge is this, that since those 
ages of early virtue — after all, perhaps, like all else at 
the same period, partly fabulous — Rome has been but 
what it is, adorned by virtues that have claimed the ad¬ 
miration of the world, and polluted by vices that have 
drawn upon her the reprobation of the good, yet, which 
are but such as the world shows its surface over, from 
the farthest India, to the bleak wastes of Britain. It is, 
Aurelian, a thing neither strange nor new that vices 
thrive in Rome. And, long since, have there been 
those, like Nerva and the good Severus, and the late 
censor Valerian, who have aimed at their correction. 
These, and others who, before and since, have wrought 
in the same work, have done well for the empire. Their 
aim has been a high one, and the favor of the gods has 
been theirs. Aurelian may do more and better in the 
same work, seeing his power is greater and his piety 
more zealous.’ 

‘ These are admitted truths. Pronto, save the last ; 
but whither do they tend ? ’ 

‘ To this. Because, Aurelian, vice has been in 
Rome ; because even the priesthood has been corrupt, 
and the temples themselves the sties you say they now 
are — for this, have the gods ever withdrawn their pro¬ 
tection ? Has Rome ever been the less prosperous ? 
What is more, can we conceive that they who made us 
of their own fiery mould, so prone to violate the bounds 
of moderation, would, for yielding to such instincts, in¬ 
terpose in wrath, as if that had happened which was 
not foreseen, and against which, they had made sure 


!68 


A TJ R E L I A N . 


provision ? Are the heavens to blaze with the fires of 
the last day, thunders to roll as if earth were shaken to 
her centre, the entrails of dumb beasts to utter forth ter¬ 
rific prophecy of great and impending wo, because, 
forsooth, the people of Rome are by no means patterns of 
purity — because, perchance, within the temples them¬ 
selves, an immorality may have been purposed, or per¬ 
petrated— because, even the priests themselves have 
not been, or are not, white and spotless as their robes ? ’ 

‘ There seems some reason in what you say.’ 

‘ But, great Emperor, take me not as if I would make 
myself the shield of vice, to hide it from the blow that 
would extirpate or cure it. I see, and bewail, the cor¬ 
ruptions of the age ; but, as they seem not fouler than 
those of ages which are past, especially than those of 
Nero and of Commodus, I cannot think that it is against 
these the gods have armed themselves, but, Aurelian, 
against an evil which has been long growing, and often 
assailed and checked, but which has now got to such 
giant size and strength, that except it be absolutely 
hewn down, and the least roots torn up and burned, both 
the altars of our gods, and their capital, called Eternal, 
and the empire itself, now holding the world in its wide¬ 
spread, peace-giving arms, are vanished, and anarchy, 
impiety, atheism, and the rank vices, which in such 
times would be engendered, will then reign omnipotent, 
and fill the very compass of the earth, Christ being the 
universal king ! It is against this the heavens have ar¬ 
rayed their power ; and to arouse an ungrateful, thought¬ 
less, impious people, with their sleeping king, that ihei 
have spoken in thunder.’ 

‘ Fronto, I almost believe you right.’ 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


169 


‘ Had we, Aurelian, but the eyes of moles, when the 
purposes of the gods are to be deciphered in the charac¬ 
ter of events, we should long since have seen that the 
series of disasters which have befallen the empire since 
the Gallilean atheism has taken root here, have pointed 
but to that — that they have been a chastisement of 
our supineness and sloth. When did Rome, almighty 
Rome, ever before tremble at the name of barbarian, or 
fly before their arms ? While now, is it not much that 
we are able to keep them from the very walls of the 
Capital ? They now swarm the German forests in mul¬ 
titudes, which no man can count ; their htarse mur¬ 
murs can be heard even here, ready, soon as the reins 
of empire shall fall into the hands of another Gallienus, 
to pour themselves upon the plains of Italy, changing 
our fertile lands and gorgeous cities into another Da¬ 
cia. These things were not so once ; and what cause 
there is in Rome, so deep, and high, and broad, to re-' 
solve for us the reason of this averted face of heaven, 
save that of which I speak, I cannot guess.’ 

‘ Nor I,’ said Aurelian ; ‘ I confess it. It must be so 
My work is not three, nor two ; but one. I have brought 
peace to the empire in all its borders. My legions all 
rest upon their arms. Not a sword, but is in its sheath 
— there, for the present, let it be glued fast. The sea^. 
son, so propitious for the great work of bringing again 
the empire into peace and harmony with the angry gods, 
seems to have been provided by themselves. How think 
you, Nicomachus ? ’—turning suddenly to me, as if now 
for the first time, aware that I was standing at his side. 

1 answered, ‘ that I was slow to receive the judgment 
15 VOL. I. 


170 


A U R E L I A N . 


of Pronto or of himself in that matter. That 1 could 
not believe that the gods, who should bo examples of 
.he virtues to mankind, would ever ordain such suffer¬ 
ings for their creatures as must ensue, were the former 
violences to be renewed against the Christians. So far 
from thinking them a nuisance in the state, I consider¬ 
ed them a benefit.’ 

‘ The Greek too,’ said Pronto, breaking in, ‘ is then 
a Christian.’ 

‘ ] am not a Christian, priest, nor, as I think, shall 
ever be one ; but, far sooner would I be one, than take 
my faith from thee, which, however it might guide me 
well through the wine vaults of the temple, or to the 
best stalls of the market, or to the selectest retreats of 
the suburra, would scarce show the way to heaven. I 
affront but the corruptions of religion, Aurelian. Sin¬ 
cerity I honor everywhere. Hypocrisy nowhere.’ I 
thought Pronto would have torn me with his teeth and 
nails. His white face grew whiter, but he stood still. 

‘ Say on,’ said the Emperor, ‘ though your bluntness 
be more even than Roman.’ 

‘ I think,’ I continued, ‘ the Christians a benefit to the 
state, for this reason ; not that their religion is what 
they pretend, a heaven-descended one, but that, by its 
greater strictness, it serves to rebuke the common faith 
and those who hold it, and infuse into it something of 
its own spirit. All new systems, as I take it, in their 
first beginning are strict and severe. It is thus by this 
quality they supersede older and degenerate ones ; not 
because they are truer, but because they are' purer. 
There is a prejudice among men, that the gods, whoev¬ 
er they may be, and whatever they may be, love virtue 


A U il E L 1 A N . 


171 


in men, and for that accept them. When, therefore, a 
religion fails to recommend and enforce virtue, it fails 
to meet the judgment of men concerning the true char¬ 
acter and office of a religion, and so with the exception 
of such beasts, and such there always are, who esteem 
a faith in proportion to its corruptions, they look with 
favor upon any new one which promises to be what 
they want. It is for this reason that this religion from 
Judea has made its way so far and so soon. But, it 
will, by and by, degenerate from its high estate, just as 
others have done, and be succeeded by another that 
shall raise still higher expectations. In the meantime, 
it serves the state well, both by the virtue which it en¬ 
joins upon its own subjects, and the influence it exerts, 
by indirection, upon those of the prevalent faiths, and 
upon the general manners and morals.’ 

‘ What you say,’ observed Aurelian musingly, ‘ has 
some show of sense. So much, at least, may be said 
for this religion.’ 

‘ Yet a lie,’ said Pronto, ‘ can be none the less hateful 
to the gods, because it sometime plays the part of truth. 
It is a lie still.’ 

‘ Hold,’ said Aurelian, ‘ let us hear the Greek. What 
else ?’ 

‘ I little thought,’ I replied, ‘ as I rode toward the city 
this morning, that I should at this hour be standing in 
the presence of the Emperor of Rome, a defender of the 
Christians. I am in no manner whatever fitted for the 
task. My knowledge is nothing ; my opinions, there¬ 
fore, worth but little, grounded as they are upon the 
loose reports which reach my ear concerning the char¬ 
acter and doctrines of this sect, or upon what little ob 


172 


A U R E L I A N . 


scrvrition I have made upon those whom I have knov/n 
of that persuasion. Still, I honor and esteem them, and 
such aid as I can bring them in their straits, shall be 
very gladly theirs. I will, however, add one thing more 
to what I have said in answer to Fronto who represents 
the gods as more concerned to destroy die Christians 
than to reform the common religion and the public 
morals. 1 cannot think that. Am I to believe that the 
gods, the supreme directors of human affairs, whose aim 
must be man’s highest well-being, regard with more ab¬ 
horrence an error than a vice ? — an error too that acts 
more beneficently than most truth, and is the very seed 
of the purest virtues ? I can by no means believe it. 
So that if I were interpreter of the late omens, I should 
rather see them pointed at the vices which prevail ; at 
the corruptions of the public morals, which are fouler 
than aught I had so much as dreamed of before I was 
myself a witness of them, and may well be supposed to 
startle the gods from their rest, and draw down their 
holiest thunderbolts. But I will not say more, when 
there must be so many able to do so much better in be¬ 
half of what I must still believe to be a good cause. 
Let me entreat the Emperor, before he condemns, to 
hear. There are those in Rome, of warm hearts, 
sound heads, and honest souls, from whom, if from any 
on earth, truth may be heard, and who will set in its 
just light a doctrine too excellent to suffer, as it must,.in 
my hands.’ 

‘ They shall be heard, Nicomachus. Not even a Jew 
or a Christian shall suffer without that grace ; though I 
see not how it can avail.’ 

‘ If it should not avail to plant in your mind so good 


AURELI AN. 


173 


an opinion of their way as exists in mine,’ I resumed, 
‘ it might yet to soften it, and dispose it to a more lenient 
conduct ; and so many are the miseries of life in the 
natural order of events, that the humane heart must 
desire to diminish, not increase them. Has Aurelian 
ever heaid the name of Probus the Christian ? ’ 

The Emperor turned toward Pronto with a look of 
inquiry. 

‘ Yes,’ said the priest, ‘ you have heard his name. 
But that of Felix, the bishop of the Christians, as he is 
called, is more familiar to you.’ 

‘ Felix, Felix, that is the name I have heard most, 
but Probus too, if I err not.’ 

‘ He has been named to you, I am certain,’ added 
Fronto. ‘ He is the real head of the Nazarenes, — the 
bishop, but a painted one.’ 

‘ Probus is he who turned young Piso’s head. Is it 
not so ? ’ 

‘ The very same ; and beside his, the lady Julia’s.’ 

‘ No, that was by another, one Paul of Antioch, also 
a bishop and a fast friend of the Queen. The Chris¬ 
tians themselves have of late set upon him, as they 
were so many blood-hounds, being bent upon expelling 
him from Antioch. It is not long, since, in accordance 
with the decree of some assembled bishops there, I is¬ 
sued a rescript dislodging him from his post, and plant¬ 
ing in his place one Domnus. If our purposes prosper, 
the ejected and dishonored priest may find himself at 
least safer if humbler. Probus, — I shall remember 
him. The name leads my thoughts to Thrace, where 
our greater Probus waits for me.’ 

15 * VOL. 1 


174 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ From Probus the Christian,’ I said, ‘ you will re¬ 
ceive,’ whenever you shall admit him to your presence, 
a true account of the nature of the Christians’ faith and 
of the actual condition of their community — all which, 
can be had only from a member of it.’ 

But little more was said, w'hen I departed, and tooR 
my way again towards Tibur. 

It seemed to me, from the manner of the Emperot 
more thoti from what he said, that he was settled 
and bound vp to the bad work of an assault upon the 
Christians. To what extent it was in his mind to go, I 
could not judge ; for his language was ambiguous, and 
sometimes coaU viictory. But that the darkest designs 
were harbored by him, over which he was brooding 
with a mind na-turad/ superstitious, but now almost in 
a state of exasperaU i, from the late events, was most 
evident. 


AU R E LI A N . 


175 


LETTER VI. 

FROM PISO TO FAUSfA. 

Having confined myself, in my last letter, to the af¬ 
fairs of Marcus and Lucilia, I now, Fausta, turn to 
those whiuh concern us and Rome. 

I found, on my return to the city, that the general 
anxiety concerning the designs of Aurelian had greatly 
increased. Many rumors were current of dark sayings 
of his, which, whether founded in truth or not, contrib¬ 
uted to alarm even the most hopeful, and raise serious ap¬ 
prehensions for the fate of this much and long-suffering 
religion. Julia herself partakes — 1 cannot say of the 
alarm — but of the anxiety. She has less confidence 
than I have in the humanity of the Emperor. In the 
honours heaped upon Zenobia, and the favors shown her¬ 
self and Vabalathus, she sees, not so much the outpour¬ 
ing of benevolent feeling, as a rather ostentatious dis¬ 
play of imperial generosity, and, what is called, Roman 
magnanimity. For the true character of the man she 
looks into the graves of Palmyra, upon her smoking 
ruins, and upon the blood, yet hardly dry, that stains 
the pavements of the Coelian. Julia may be right, 
though I am unwilling to believe it. Her judgment is 
entitled to the more weight in this severe decision, that it 
is ever inclined to the side of a too favorable opinion of 
character and motive. You know her nature too well, 
..o believe her capable of exaggerating the faults of even 


170 


A U R E L I A N . 


the humblest. Yet, tliough such are her apprehensi.yns, 
slie manifests the same calm and even carriage as on the 
approach of more serious troubles in Palmyra. She is 
^ull of deepest interest in the affairs of the Christians, 
and by many families of the poorer sort is resorted to 
continually for aid, for counsel, or sympathy. Not one 
in the whole community is a more frequent and devout 
attendant upon the services of the church ; and, I need 
not add, that I am her constant companion. The per¬ 
formance of this duty gives a value to life in Rome such 
as it never had before. Every seventh day, as with the 
Jews, only upon a dilfcrent day of the week, do the 
Christians assemble for the purposes of religious wor¬ 
ship. And, I can assure you, it is with no trifling acces¬ 
sion of strength for patient doing and patient bearing, 
that we return to our everyday affairs, after having lis¬ 
tened to the prayers, the reasonings, or exhortations of 
Probus. 

So great is the difference in my feelings and opinions 
from what they were before I left Rome for Palmyra, 
that it is with difficulty I persuade myself that I am the 
same person. Between Piso the Pyrronist and Piso 
the Christian, the distance seems immeasurable — yet in 
how short a time has it been past. I cannot say that I 
did not enjoy existence and value it in my former state, 
but I can say that my enjoyment of it is infinitely 
heightened as a Christian, and the rate at which I value 
it infinitely raised. Born and nurtured as I was, with 
Portia for my mother, a palace for my home Rome for 
my country and capital, offering all the luxuries of the 
earth, and affording all the means I could desire for car¬ 
rying on researches in study of every kind, surrounded 


AU RE LI an. 


177 


by friends of the noblest and best families in the city,—- 
I could not but enjoy life in some very important sense. 
While mere youth lasted, and my thoughts never wan¬ 
dered beyond the glittering forms of things, no one could 
be happier or more contented. All was fair and beauti¬ 
ful around me — what could I ask for more ? I was 
satisfied and filled. But, by and by,my dream of life was 
disturbed — my sleep broken. Natural questions began 
to propose themselves for my solution, such, I suppose, 
as, sooner or later, spring up in every bosom. I began 
to speculate about myself—about the very self that had 
been so long, so busy, about everything else beside itself. 
I wished to know something of myself—of my origin, 
my nature, my present condition, my ultimate fate. It 
seemed to me I was too rare and curious a piece of work 
to go to ruin, final and inevitable — perhaps to-morrow— 
at all events in a very few years. Of futurity I had 
heard—and of Elysium—just as I had heard of Jupiter, 
greatest and best, but, with my earliest youth, these things 
had faded from my mind, or had already taken upon 
themselves the character of fable. My Virgil, in whicli 
I early received my lessons of language, at once divested 
them of all their air of reality, and left them nalced fic¬ 
tion. The other poets, Livy helping them, continued 
the same work and completed it. But, bent with most 
serious and earnest desires toward truth on what seemed 
to me the greatest theme, I could not remain where I 
was, and turned with highest expectations to the philos¬ 
ophers. I not only read, but I studied and pondered 
them with diligence, and with as sincere a desire of 
arriving at truth as ever scholar sat at the feet of his in- 
rtructer. The result was anything; but satisfying. ^ 


17S 


A U R E L I -A N . 


ended a universal sceptic, so far as human systems ot 
philosophy were concerned, so far as they pretended to 
solve the enigma of God and man, of life and death 
but with a heart, nevertheless, yearning after truth ; and 
even full of faith, if that may be called faith which would 
instinctively lay hold upon a God and a hope of immor¬ 
tality ; and, though beaten back once and again,by every 
form which the syllogism could assume, still keep its 
hold. 

This was my state, Fausta, when 1 was found by 
Christianity. Without faith, ftnd yet with it; doubting, 
and yet believing ; rejecting philosophy, but leaning 
upon nature ; dissatisfied, but hoping. 1 cannot easilj 
find words to tell you the change which Christian faith 
has wrought within me. All I can say is this, that 1 
am now a new man ; I am made over again ; I am born 
as it were into another world. Where darkness once 
was, there is now light brighter than the sun. Where 
doubt was, there is now certainty. I have knowledge 
and truth, for error and perplexity. The inner world of 
my mind is resplendent with a day whose luminary will 
never set. And even the outer world of appearances 
and forms shines more gloriously, and has an air of 
reality which before it never had. It used to seem to 
me like the gorgeous fabric of a dream, and as if, at 
some unexpected moment, it might melt into air and 
nothingness, and I, and all men and things, with it; 
for there appeared to be no purpose in it ; it came from 
nothing, it achieved nothing, and certainly seemed to 
conduct to nothing. Men, like insects, came and went; 
were born, and died, and that was all. Nothing was ac¬ 
complished, nothing perfected. But now, nature seems 


A U R E L I A N . 


179 


to me sta])le and eternal as God himself. The world 
being the great birth-place and nursery of these myriad^ 
of creatures, made, as I ever conceived, in a divine like¬ 
ness, after some godlike model,— for what spirit of other 
spheres can be more beautifu’ than a perfect man, or a 
perfect woman — each animated with the principle of 
immortality — there is a reason for its existence, and its 
perpetuity, from whose force the mind cannot escape. 
It is, and it ever will be ; and mankind upon it, a con¬ 
tinually happier, and more virtuous brotherhood. 

Yes, Fausta, to me as a Christian, everything is new 
everything better ; the inward world, the outward world, 
the present, and the future. Life is a worthier gift, and 
a richer possession. I am to myself an object of a thou¬ 
sand-fold greater interest; and every other human being, 
from a poor animal, that was scarce worthy its wretched 
existence, starts up into a god, for whom the whole earth 
may, one day, become too narrow a field either to till, or 
rule. I am, accordingly, ready to labor both for myself 
and others. I once held myself too cheap to do much 
even for myself; for others, I would do nothing, except 
to feed the hunger that directly appealed to me, or re¬ 
lieve the wretchedness that made me equally wretched. 
Not so now. I myself am a different being, and others 
are different. I am ready to toil for such beings; to 
suffer for them. They are too valuable to be neglected, 
abused, insulted, trodden into the dust. They must be 
defended and rescued, whenever their felloAV-men — 
wholly ignorant of what they are, and what themselves 
are about—would oppress them. More than all, do they 
need truth, effectually to enlighten and redeem them, 
and truth they must have at whatever cost. Let thent 


ISO 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


Dnly once know what they are, and the world is safe. 
Christianity tells them this, and Christianity they must 
have. The State must not stand between man and 
truth ! or, if it do, it must be rebuked by those who have 
the knowledge and the courage, and made to assume 
its proper place and office. Knowing what has been 
done for me by Christian truth, I can never be content 
until to others the same good is at least offered ; and I 
shall devote what power and means I possess to this 
task. The prospect now is of opposition and conflict 
But it dismays not me, nor Julia, nor any of this faith 
who have truly adopted its principles. For, if the mere 
love of fiime, the excitement of a contest, the prospect of 
pay or plunder, will carry innumerable legions to the 
battle-field to leave there their bones, how much more 
shall the belief of a Christian arm him for even worse 
encounters ? It were pitiful indeed, if a possession, as 
valuable as this of truth, could not inspire a heroism, 
which the love of fame or of money can. 

These things I have said, to put you fully in posses¬ 
sion of our present position, plans, and purposes. The 
fate of Christianity is to us now as absorbing an interest, 
as once was the fate of Palmyra. 

I had been in the city only long enough to give Julia 
a full account of my melancholy visit in the country, 
and to write a part of it to you, when I walked forth to 
observe for myself the signs which the city might offer, 
•^iffier to confirm, or allay, the apprehensions which 
were begun to be felt. 

I took my way over the Palatine, desiring to see the 
excellent Tacitus, whose house is there. He was ab- 


A U R E L I A N . 


181 


sent, being suddenly called to Baiae. I turned toward 
the Forum, wishing to perform a commission for Julia 
at the shop of Civilis—still alive, and still compounding 
his sweets — which is r.ow about midway between the 
slope of the hill and the having been removed 

from its former place where you knew it, under the 
eaves of the Temple of Peace. The little man of 
‘ smells ’ was at his post, more crooked than ever, but 
none the less exquisitely arrayed ; his wig befitting a 
young Bacchus, rather than a dried shred of a man be¬ 
yond his seventieth year. All the gems of the east glit¬ 
tered on his thin fingers, and diamonds, that might move 
the envy of Livia, hung from his ears. The gales of 
Arabia, burdened with the fragrance of every flower of 
that sunny clime, seemed concentrated into an atmos¬ 
phere around him ; and, in truth, I suppose a specimen 
of every pot and phial of his vast shop, might be found 
upon his person concealed in gold boxes, or hanging in 
the merest fragments of bottles upon chains of silver or 
gold, or deposited in folds of his ample robes. He was 
odor in substantial form. He saluted me with a grace, 
of which he only in Rome is master, and with a def¬ 
erence that could not have been exceeded had I been 
Aurelian. I told him that I wished to procure a per¬ 
fume of Egyptian origin and name, called Cleopatra’s 
tears, which was reputed to convey to the organs of 
smell, an odor more exquisite than that of the rarest 
Persian rose, or choicest gums of Arabia. The eyes of 
Civilis kindled with the flres of twenty — when love’s 
anxious brow is suddenly cleared up by that littie, bu' 
all comprehensive word, yes — as he answered, 

< 16 


V 


VOL. I. 


1S2 


A tJ R E L I A N. 


‘ Noble Piso^ I honor you. I never doubted youi 
taste. It is seen in your palace, in your dress, nay, in 
the very costume of your incomparable slave, who has 
done me the honor to call here in your service. But 
now have you given of it the last and highest proof. 
Never has the wit of man before compounded an essence 
like that which lies buried in this porphyry vase.’ 

' You do not mean that I am to take away a vase of 
that size ? I do not purchase essences by the pound ! ’ 
Civilis seemed as if he would have fainted, so op¬ 
pressed was he by this display of ignorance. My char¬ 
acter, I found, was annihilated in a moment. Wher 
his presence of mind was recovered, he said, 

‘ This vase ? Great Jupiter ! The price of your pal 
ace upon the Coelian would scarce purchase it ! Were 
Its contents suddenly let loose, and spilled upon the air, 
not Rome only, but Italy, would be bathed in the trans¬ 
porting, life-giving fragrance ! Now I shall remove the 
cover, first giving you to know, that within this larger 
vase there is a number of smallest bottles, some of glass, 
others of gold, in each of which are contained a few of 
the tears, and which are warranted to retain their po¬ 
tency, aud lend their celestial peculiarity to your clothes 
or your apartments, without loss or diminution in the 
least appreciable degree, during the life of the purcha¬ 
ser. Now, if it please you, bend this way, and receive 
the air which I shall presently set free. How think 
you, noble Piso ? Art not a new man ? 

‘ I am new in my knowledge such as it is Civilis. It 
is certainly agreeable, most agreeable.’ 

‘ Agreeable ! So is mount Etna a pretty hill! So is 
Aurelian a fair soldier ! so is the sun a good sized 


A U R E L I A N. 


183 


brazier ! I beseech thee, find another word. Let it 
not go forth to all Rome, that the most noble Piso deems 
the tears of Cleopatra agreeable ! ’ 

‘ I can think no otherwise,’ I replied. ‘ It is really 
agreeable, and reminds me, more than anything else, 
of the oldest Falernian just rubbed between the palms 
of the hand, which you will allow is to compliment it 
in no moderate measure. But confess now, Civilis, that 
you have an hundred perfumes more delicious than this ’ 

‘ Piso, I may say this, — they have been so.’ 

‘ Ah, 1 understand you ; you admit then, that it is 
the force of fashion that lends this extraordinary odor 
to the porphyry vase.’ 

‘ Truly, noble Piso, it has somewhat to do with it, it 
must be acknowledged.’ 

‘ It would be curious, Civilis, to know what name 
this bore, and in what case it was bestowed, and at 
what price sold, before the Empress Livia fancied it. I 
think it should have been named, ‘ Livia’s smiles.’ It 
would, at any rate, be a good name for it at thy shop in 
Alexandria.’ 

‘ You are facetious, noble Piso. But that last hint is 
too good to be thrown away. Truly, you are a man of 
the world, whose distinction I suppose is, that he has 
eyes in the hind part of his head, as well as before. 
But what blame can be mine for such dealing ? I 
am driven ; I am a slave. It is fashion, that works 
these wonders, not I. And there is no goddess, Piso, 
like her. She is the true creator. Upon that which is 
worthless, can she bestow, in a moment, inestimable 
value. What is despised to-day, she can exalt to-mor* 
row to the very pinnacle of honor. She is my maker 


184 


A U R E L I A N . 


One day I was poor, the goddess took me by the hand, 
and smiled upon me, and the next day I was ri:h. Il 
was the favorite mistress of Maximin, who, one day — 
her chariot, Piso, so chance would have it, broke down 
at my door, when she took refuge in my little shop, 
then at the corner of the street Castor as you turn to¬ 
wards the Tiber — purchasing a particular perfume, of 
which I had large store, and boasted much to her, gave 
me such currency among the rich and noble, that, from 
that hour, my fortune was secure. No one bought a 
perfume afterwards but of Civilis. Civilis was soon the 
next person to the Emperor. And, to this hour, has 
this same goddess befriended me. And many an old 
jar, packed away in the midst of rubbish in dark reces¬ 
ses now valueless, do I look upon as nevertheless so 
much gold — its now despised contents one day to dis¬ 
perse themselves upon kings and nobles, in the senate 
and the theatres. I need not tell you what this dimin¬ 
utive bottle might have been had for, before the Kalends. 
Yet, by Hercules, should I have sold it even then for 
less ? for should I not have divined its fortune ? The 
wheel is ever turning, turning. But, most excellent 
Piso, men of the world are ever generous — ’ 

‘ Fear nothing, Civilis, I will not betray you. I be¬ 
lieve you have spoken real truths. Besides, with Livia 
on your side, and what could all Rome do to hurt you ?’ 

‘Most true, most true. But, may I ask — for one 
thing has made me astonished — how is it that you, be¬ 
ing now, as report goes, a Christian, should come tc 
me to purchase essences ? When 1 heard you had sc 
named yourself, I looked to lose your custom forevei 
after.’ 


A U R E L I A N . 


1S5 


Why should not a Christian man smell of that 
iv'hich is agreeable, as well as another ?’ 

‘ Ah, that I cannot say. I have heard — I kr ow no¬ 
thing, Piso, beyond essences and perfumes — but, 1 
have heard, that the Christians forbear such things, 
calling them vanities ; just as they withdraw too, ’ris 
said, from the theatres and the circuses.’ 

‘ They do, indeed, withdraw from the theatres and 
circuses, Civilis, because the entertainments witnessed 
there do, as they judge, serve but to make beasts of 
men ; they minister to vice. But in a sweet smell they 
see no harm, any more than in a silk dress, in well- 
proportioned buildings, or magnificent porticoes. Why 
should it be very wrong or very foolish to catch the 
odors which the divine Providence plants in the rose, 
and in a thousand flowers and gums as they wander 
forth upon the air for our delight, and fasten them up 
in these little bottles ? by which means we can breathe 
them at all times — in winter as well as in summer, in 
one country, or clime, as in another. Thy shop, Civ¬ 
ilis, is but a flower-garden in another form, and under 
another name.’ 

‘ I shall think better of the Christians for this. 1 
hardly believed the report, indeed, for it were most un¬ 
natural and strange to find fault with odors such as 
these. I shall lament the more, that they are to be so 
dealt with by the Emperor. Hast thou heard what is 
reported this morning ? ’ 

‘ No ; I am but just from home. How does it go ?’ 

‘ Why, ’tis nothing other nor less than this that Au- 
relian, being resolved to change ihe Christians all back 
16* VOL. I. 


186 


A U R E L I A N . 


again into what they were, has begun with his niece 
the princess Aurelia, and, with violence, insists that she 
shall sacrifice — which she steadfastly refuses to do. 
Some say, that she has not been seen at the palace for 
several days, and that she is fast locked up in the great 
prison on the Tiber.’ 

‘ I do not believe a word of it, Civilis. The Emperor 
has of late used harsh language of the Christians, I 
know. But for one word he has spoken, the city has 
coined ten. And, moreover, the words of the priest 
Pronto are quoted for those of Aurelian. It is well 
known he is especially fond of Aurelia^ and Mucapor, 
to whom she is betrothed, is his favorite among all his 
generals, not excepting Probus.’ 

‘ Well, well, may it be as you say ! I, for my part, 
should be sorry that any mishap befel those with whom 
the most noble Piso is connected ; especially seeing 
they do not quarrel, as I was fain to believe, with my 
calling. Yet, never before, as I think, have I seen a 
Christian in my shop.’ 

‘ They may have been here without your knowing it.’ 

‘ Yes, that is true.’ 

‘ Besides, the Christians being in the greater propor¬ 
tion of the middle or humbler classes, seek not their 
goods at places where emperors resort. They go else¬ 
where.’ 

Civilis bowed to the floor, as he replied, ‘You do me 
too much honor.’ 

‘ The two cases of perfume which I buy,’ I then said, 

^ are to travel into the far East. Please to secure there 
accordingly.’ 


AU RE LI AN. 


IS-; 

‘ Are they not then for the princess Julia, as I sup¬ 
posed ?’ 

‘ They are for a friend in Syria. We wish her to 
know what is going on here in the capital of all the 
world.’ 

‘ By the gods ! you have devised well It is the talk 
all over Rome. Cleopatra’s tears have taken all hearts. 
Orders from the provinces will soon pour in. They 
shall follow you well secured, as you say.’ 

I enjoy a call upon this whole Roman, and yet half 
Jew, as much as upon the first citizens of the capital. 
The cup of Aurelian, is no fuller than the cup of Civilis. 
The perfect bliss that emanates from his countenance, 
and breathes from his form and gait, is pleasing to be¬ 
hold— upon whatever founded—seeing it is a state 
that is reached by so few. No addition could be made 
to the felicity of this fortunate man. He conceives his 
occupation to be more honorable than the proconsulship 
of a province, and his name, he pleases himself with 
believing, is familiar to more ears than any man’s, save 
the Emperor’s, and has been known in Rome for a 
longer period than any other person’s living, excepting 
only the head of the Senate, the venerable Tacitus. 
This is all legible in the lines about his mouth and eyes. 

Leaving the heaven of the happy man, I turned to 
the Forum of Augustus, to look at a statue of brass, of 
Aurelian, just placed among the great men of Rome in 
front of the Temple of Mars, the Avenger. This statue 
is the work of Periander, who, with that universality of 
power which marks the Greek, has made his genius as 
distinguished here for sculpture, as it was in Palmyra 
for military defence and architecture. Who, for oerfec- 


188 


A U R E L I A N . 


lion ill this art of arts, is to be compared with the Greek ^ 
or for any work, of either the head or the hands, that 
implies the possession of what we mean by genius ? 
The Greeks have not only originated all that we know 
of great and beautiful in letters, philosophy and the arts 
but, what they have originated, they have also perfected. 
Whatever they have touched, they have finished; at 
least, so far as art, and the manner of working, is concern¬ 
ed. The depths of all wisdom and philosophy they have 
not sounded indeed, though they have gone deeper than 
any, only because they are in their own essence unfath¬ 
omable. Time, as it flows on, bears us to new regions to 
be explored, whose riches constantly add new stores to 
our wisdom, and open new views to science. But in all 
an they have reached a point beyond which none have 
since advanced, and beyond which it hardly seems pos¬ 
sible to go. A doric column, a doric temple, a Corinthian 
capital, a Corinthian temple — these perfectly satisfy and 
fill the mind ; and, for seven hundred years, no change 
or addition has been made or attempted that has not 
been felt to be an injury. And I doubt not that seven 
thousand years hence, if time could but spare it so long, 
pilgrims would still go in search of the beautiful from 
the remotest parts of the world, from parts now unknown, 
to worship before the Parthenon, and, may I not add, the 
Temple of the Sun in Palmyra ! 

Periander has gained new honors by this admirable 
piece of work. I had hardly commenced my examina¬ 
tion of it, when a grating voice at my elbow, never, once 
heard, to be mistaken for any other, croaked out what 
was meant as a challenge. 

‘ The greatest captain of ihi.s or of any age ’ ’ 


A U R E L I A N. 


1S9 


It was Spun’us, a man whom no slight can chill nor 
even insult, cause to abate the least of his intrusive 
familiarity — a familiarity which he covets, too, only for 
the sake of disputation and satire. To me, however, he 
is never other than a source of amusement. He is a 
variety of the species I love occasionally to study. 

I told him 1 was observing the workmanship, without 
thinking of the man represented. 

‘ If you will allow me to say it,’ he rejoined, ‘ a very 
inferior subject of contemplation. A statue—as I take it, 
the thing, that is, for which it is made, is commemora' 
tion. If one wants to see fine work in marble, there is 
the cornice for him just overhead : or in brass, let him 
look at the doors of the new temple, or the last table or 
couch of Syphax. The proper subject for man is man.’ 

‘ Well, Spurius, on your own ground then. In this 
brass I do not see brass, nor yet Aurelian — ’ 

‘ What then, in the name of Hecate ? ’ 

‘Nothing but intellect — the mind, the soul of the 
greater artist, Periander. That drapery never fell so 
upon Aurelian ; nor was Aurelian’s form or bearing 
ever like this. It is all ennobled, and exalted above pure 
nature, by the divine power of genius. The true artist, 
under every form and every line of nature, sees another 
form and line of moie perfect grace and beauty, which 
he chooses instead, and makes it visible and permanent 
in stone or brass. You see nothing in me, but merely 
Piso as he walks the streets. Periander sees another 
within, bearing no more resemblance to me — yet as 
much — than does this, to Aurelian.’ 

‘ That, I simply conceive, to be so much sophisiry,’ re 
"'olned the poet, ‘ which no man would be guilty of. ex 


190 


A U R E L I A N . 


cepl he had been for the very purpose, as one must ihinkj 
of degrading h is intellect, to the Athenian schools. Still, 
as I said and think, the statue is made to commemorate 
the man represented, not the artist.’ 

‘ It is made for that. But, oftentimes, the very name 
of the man commemorated is lost, while that of the ar¬ 
tist lives forever. In my judgment there is as much ol 
Periander in the statue as there is of Aurelian.’ 

‘ I know not what the fame of this great Periander may 
be ages hence. It has not till now reached my ear.’ 

‘ It is not ea.'ty to reach the ear of some who dwell jii 
the via coeli.’ 1 could not help saying that. 

‘ My rooms, sir, I would inform you,’ he rejoined 
sharply, ‘ are on the third floor.’ 

‘ Then I do wonder you should not have heard of 
Periander.’ 

‘ Greater than x4urelian ! and I must wonder too. A 
poet may be greater than a general or an emperor, I 
grant : he is one of the family of the gods ; but how a 
worker in brass or marble can be, passes my poor un¬ 
derstanding. It is vain to attempt to raise the mere 
artist, to the level of the historian or poet.’ 

‘ I think that too. I only said he was greater than 
Aurelian — ’ 

‘ Than Aurelian,’ replied Spurius, ‘who has extended 
the bounds of the empire ! * 

‘ But narrowed those of human happiness,’ I an¬ 
swered. ‘ Which is of more consequence, empire or 
man ? But now, man was the great object ! I grant 
you he is, and for that reason a man who, like an artist 
of genius, adds to the innocent sources of human enjoy 
inent, is greater than the soldier and conqueror, whose 


A U R E L I A N . 


191 


business is the annoyance and destruction of life. Au- 
reiian has slain hundreds of thousands. Periandei 
never injured a worm. He dwells in a cairn and peace¬ 
ful world of his own, and his works are designed to in¬ 
fuse the same spirit that fills himself into all who behold 
them. You must confess the superior power of ai't, and 
of the artist, in this very figure. Who thinks of con¬ 
quest, blood, and death, as he looks upon these flowing 
outlines, this calm, majestic form — upon that still face ? 
The artist here is the conqueror of the conqueror, and 
makes him subserve his own purposes ; purposes, of a 
higher nature than the mere soldier ever dreamed of. 
No one can stand and contemplate this form, without 
being made a lover of beauty rather than of blood and 
death ; and beauty is peace.’ 

‘ It must be impossible,’ replied the bitter spirit, ‘ for 
one who loves Palmyra better than his native Rome, to 
see much merit in Aurelian. It is a common saying, 
Piso is a Palmyrene. The report is current too that 
Piso is about to turn author, and celebrate that great 
nation in history.’ 

‘ I wish I were worthy to do so,’ I answered, ‘ I might 
then refute certain statements in another quarter. Yet 
events have already refuted them.’ 

‘ If my book,’ replied Spurius, ‘ be copied a thousend 
times, the statements shall stand as they are. They are 
founded upon indisputable evidence and philosophical 
inferences.’ 

‘ But, Spurius, they are e\ery one contradicted by 
the late events.’ 

‘ No matter for that, if they were ever true they must 
always be true. Reasoning is as strong as fact. 1 


iy2 


AURE LIA N . 


.ound Palmyra a vulgar, upstart, provincial city ; the 
most distasteful of all spots on earth to a refined mind ; 
such I left it, and such 1 have shown it to the world.’ 

‘ Yet,’ I urged, ‘ if the Palmyrenes in the defence of 
their country showed themselves a brave, daring, and 
dangerous foe, as they certainly were magnanimous ; if 
so many facts and events prove this, and all Rome admits 
it, it will seem like little else than malice for such pages 
to circulate in your book. Besides, as to a thousand 
other things I can prove you to have seen amiss.’ 

‘ Because I have but one eye, am I incapable of vis 
ion? Am I to be reproached with my misfortunes ? One 
eye is the same as two ; who sees two images except he 
squint ? I can describe that wain, loaded down with 
wine casks, drawn by four horses with scarlet trappings, 
the driver with a sweeping Juno’s favor in his cap, as 
justly as you can. Who can see more ? ’ 

‘ I thought not, Spurius, of your misfortune, though I 
must think two eyes better for seeing than one, but only 
of favorable opportunities for observation. You were in 
Palmyra from the ides of January to the nones of Feb¬ 
ruary, and lived in a tavern. I have been there more 
than half a year, and dwelt among the citizens them¬ 
selves. I knew them in public and in private, and saw 
them under all circumstances most favorable to a just 
opinion, and I can affirm that a more discolored picture 
of a people was never drawn than yours.’ 

‘ All the world,’ said the creature, ‘ knows that Spurius 
IS no flatterer. I have not only published travels among 
the Palmyrenes, but I intend to publish a poem also — 
yes, a satire — and if it should be entitled “ Woman’s 
pride humbled,” or “ The downfall of false greatness ” 


A U R E L I A N . 


i9ri 

or “ The gourd withered in a day,” or “ Mushrooms noi 
oaks,” or “ Ants not elephants,” what would there be 
wonderful in it ? — or, if certain Romans should figure 
largely in it, eh ? ’ 

‘ Nothing is less wonderful, Spurius, than the obsti¬ 
nacy and tenaciousness of error ? ’ 

‘ Periander greater than Aurelian !’ rejoined he, mo 
ving off; ‘ that is a good thing for the town.’ 

As I turned, intending to visit the shop of Demetrius, 
to see what progress he was making in his silver 
Apollo, I was accosted by the consul, Marcellinus. 

‘ A fair morning to’you, Piso,’ said he ; ‘ and I see 
you need the salutation and the wish, for a black cloud 
has just drifted from you, and you must still feel as if 
under the shadow. Half the length of the street, as I 
slowly approached, have I witnessed your earnest dis¬ 
course with one whom, I now see, to have been Spu¬ 
rius. But I trust your Christian principles are not 
about to make an agrarian of you ? Whence this sud¬ 
den intimacy with one like Spurius ? ’ 

‘ One need not, I suppose, be set down as a lover of 
an east wind because they both sometimes take the same 
road, and can scarcely separate if they would ? But, to 
speak the truth, a man is to me a man, and I never yet 
have met one of the race from whom I could not gain 
either amusement, instruction, or warning. Spurius is 
better than a lecture from a philosopher, upon the odi¬ 
ousness of prejudice. To any one inclined to harbor 
prejudices would I recommend an hour’s interview with 
Spurius, sooner far than I would send him to Cleanthei 
17 VOL. I. 


194 


A U K E L I A . 


the Stoic, or Silius the Platonist, or, I had almost said 
Probus the Christian.’ 

‘ May I ask, Piso, if you have in sober earnest joined 
yourself to the community of the Christians, or, are you 
only dallying for awhile with their doctrines, just as our 
young men are this year infected by the opinions of 
Cleanthes, the next followers of Silius, the third of the 
nuisance Crito, and the fourth, adrift from all, and the 
fifth, good defenders, if not believers, of the popular su¬ 
perstitions ? I presume I may believe that such is the 
case with you. I trust so, for the times are not favora¬ 
ble for the Christians, and I would like to know that 
you were not of them.’ 

‘ I am however of them, with earnestness. I have 
been a Christian ever since I first thoroughly compre¬ 
hended what it meant.’ 

‘ But how can it be possible that, standing as you do 
at the head as it were of the nobility and wealth of Rome, 
you can confound yourself with this obscure and vulgar 
tribe ? I know that some few of reputation are with them 
beside yourself; but how few ! Come, come, disabuse 
yourself of this error and return to the old, safe, and rep¬ 
utable side.’ 

‘ If mere fancy, Marcellinus, had carried me over to 
the Christians, fancy or whim might bring me away 
from them. But if it be, on the other hand, a question 
of truth, then it is clear, fashion and respectability, and 
even what is safest, or most expedient, are arguments 
not to be so much as lisped.’ 

‘ No more, no more ! I see how it is. You are fairly 
gone from us. Nevertheless, though it may be thought 
needful to check the growth of this sect, I shall hope that 


A U R E L I A N . 


195 


your bark may sail safely along. But this reported disap¬ 
pearance of Aurelia shows that danger is not far oil'.’ 

‘ Do you then credit the rumor ? ’ 

‘ I can do no otherwise. It is in every part of the 
town. I shall learn the truth at the capitol. I go to 
meet the senate.’ 

‘ One moment: Is my judgment of the senate a right one 
in this, that it would not second Aurelian in an attack 
upon the privileges, property, or lives of the Christians ? ’ 
‘ I think it is. Although, as I know, there are but 
few Christians in the body — how many you know 
surely better than I — yet I am persuaded it would be 
averse to acts of intolerance and persecution. Will you 
not accompany me to the sitting ? ’ 

‘ Not so early. I am first bound elsewhere.’ 

You know, Fausta, that I avoid the senate. Being 
no longer a senate, a Roman senate, but a mere gathering 
of the flatterers of the reigning Emperor, whoever he 
may be, neither pleasure nor honor can come of their 
company. There is one aspect however, at the present 
moment, in which this body is to be contemplated with 
interest. It is not, in matters of religion, a superstitious 
body. Here it stands, between Aurelian with the popu¬ 
lace on his side, and the Christians, or whatever relig¬ 
ious body or sect there should be any design to oppress 
or exterminate. It consists of the best and noblest, and 
richest, of Rome ; of those who have either imbibed their 
opinions in philosophy and religion from the ancient phi¬ 
losophers or their living representatives, or are indifferent 
and neglectful of the whole subject ; which is the more 
common case. In either respect they are as a body toler* 
ant of the various forms which religion or superstition 


196 


A U R E L I A N. 


may a ;sume. The only points of interest or inquiry 
with them would be, whether any specified frith or cer¬ 
emonies tended to the injury of the state ? whether .hey 
affected to its damage the existing order of civil affairs ? 
These questions being answered favorably on the part 
of the greater number, there would be no disposition to 
interfere. Of Christianity, the common judgment in 
that body, and among those in the capital who are of 
the same general rank, is for the most part favorable. 
It is commended for its modesty, for the quiet and unos* 
tentatious manner in which its religious affairs are man¬ 
aged, and for the humble diligence with which it con¬ 
cerns itself with the common people and the poor, 
carefully instructing them in the doctrines of their re 
ligion, and relieving liberally their necessities. I am 
persuaded, that any decision of the senate concerning 
the Christians, would be indulgent and paternal, and 
that it would, in opinion and feeling, be opposed to any 
violence whatever on the part of Aurelian. But then, 
alas ! it is little that they can do with even the best pur¬ 
poses. The Emperor is absolute — the only power, in 
truth, in the state. The senate exists but in name and 
form. It has even less independent power than that ol 
Palmyra had under Zenobia. Yours, indeed, was de¬ 
pendent through affection and trust, reposing in a higher 
wisdom than its own. This, through fear and the spirit 
of flattery. So many members too were added, after the 
murderous thinning of its seats in the affair of the mint, 
that, now,scarce a voice would be raised in open oppc sition 
to any course the Emperor might adopt. The new mem¬ 
bers being moreover of newer families, nearer the peo¬ 
ple arc less inclined than the others to resist any of .^.is 


AU LE LIAN. 


197 


meabcires. Still, it is most evident that there is an un¬ 
der current of ill-will, opposition, jealousy, distrust, run¬ 
ning through the body, which, if the opportunity should 
present itself, and there were courage enough for the 
work, may show itself and make itself felt and respect¬ 
ed. The senate, in a word, though slavish and subser¬ 
vient, is not friendly. 

But I am detaining you from the company of Deme¬ 
trius, of which you were always fond. I soon reached 
his rich establishment, and being assured that he of 
Palmyra was within, I entered. First passing through 
many apartments, filled with those who were engaged in 
some one of the branches of this beautiful art, I came 
to that which was sacred to the labors of the two bro¬ 
thers, who are employed in the invention of the designs 
oi their several works, in drawing the plans, in prepar¬ 
ing the models, and then in overseeing the younger ar¬ 
tists at their tasks, themselves performing all the higher 
and more difficult parts of the labor. Demetrius was 
working alone at his statue; the room in which he was, 
being filled either with antiquities in brass, ivory, silver, 
or gold, or with finished specimens of his own and his 
brother’s skill, all disposed with the utmost taste, and 
with all the advantages to be derived from the architec¬ 
ture of the room, from a soft and mellowed light resem¬ 
bling moonlight which came through alabaster windows, 
from the rich cloths, silks, and other stuffs, variously 
disposed around, and from the highly ornamented cab¬ 
inets in which articles of greatest perfection and value 
were kept and exhibited. Here stood the enthusiast, 
applying himself so intently to his task, that he neithe; 

17* VOE. I. 


198 


A U R E L I A N . 


heard the door of the apartment as it opened, nor the 
voice of the slave who announced my name. But, in a 
moment, as he suddenly retreated to a dark recess to 
observe from that point the effect of his touches as he 
proceeded, he saw me, and cried out, 

‘ Most glad to greet you here, Piso ; your judgment 
is, at th’s very point, what I shall be thankful for. Here, 
if it please you, move to the very spot in which I now 
am in, and tell me especially this, whether the finger of 
the right hand should not be turned a line farther to¬ 
ward the left of the figure. The metal is obstinate, but 
still it can be bent if necessary. Now judge, and speak 
your judgment frankly, for my sake.’ 

I sank back into the recess as desired, and considered 
attentively the whole form, rough now and from the 
moulds, and receiving the first finishing touches from 
the rasp and the chisel. I studied it long and at my 
leisure, Demetrius employing himself busily about 
some other matter. It is a beautiful and noble figure, 
worthy any artist’s reputation of any age, and or a 
place in the magnificent temple for which it is designed. 
So I assured Demetrius, giving him at length my opin- 
iv;n upon every part. I ended with telling him I did 
not believe that any effect would be gained by altering 
the present direction of the finger. It had come perfect 
from the moulds. 

‘ Is that your honest judgment, Piso ? Christians, 
they say, ever speak the exact truth. Fifty times have 
I gone where you now are to determine the point. My 
brother says it is right. But I cannot tell. I have at¬ 
tempted the work in too much haste ; but Aurelian 
ihinks, I believe, that a silver man may be made as 


A U R E L I A N. 


199 


Easily as a flesh one may be unmade. Eome is not 
Palmyra, Piso. What a life there for an artist! Calm 
as a summer sea. Here! by all the gods and god¬ 
desses ! if one hears of anything but of blood and death ! 
Heads all on where they should be to-day, to-morrow 
are olT. To-day, captives cut up on the altars of some 
accursed god, and to-morrow thrown to some savagi? 
beast, no better and no worse, for the entertainment ol 
javages worse than either or all. The very boys in the 
streets talk of little else than of murderous sports of gla¬ 
diators or wild animals. I swear to you, a man can 
scarce collect or keep his thoughts here. What’s this 
about the Christians too ? I marvel, Piso, to see you 
here alive ! They say you are to be all cut up root and 
branch. Take my advice, and fly with me back to 
Palmyra ! Not another half year would I pass among 
these barbarians for all the patronage of the Emperor, 
his minions, and the senate at their heels. What say 
you ? ’ 

‘ No, Demetrius, I cannot go ; but I should not blame 
you for going. Rome is no place, I agree with you, for 
the life contemplative, or for the pure and innocent la¬ 
bors of art. It is the spot for intense action ; but — ’ 

‘ Sufleringyou mean — ’ 

‘ That too, most assuredly, but of action too. It is the 
great heart of the world.’ 

‘ Black as Erebus and night.’ 

‘ Yes, but still a great one, which, if it can be 
ince made to beat true, will send its blood, then a pure 
-find life-giving current, to the remotest extremities of the 
world, which is its body. I hope for the time to come 
when this will be true. There is morr goodness 


200 


a R E LI A N . 


Rome, Demetrius, than you have heard, or known of 
There is a people here worth saving: I, wiih the othei 
Christians, am set to this work. We must not aban* 
don it.’ 

‘ ’Twill be small comfort though, should you all per¬ 
ish doing it.’ 

‘ Our perishing might be but the means of new and 
greater multitudes springing up to finish what we had 
begun, but left incomplete. There is great life in death. 
Blood, spilled upon the ground, is a kind of seed that 
comes up men. Truth is not extinguished by putting 
out life. It then seems to shine the more brightly, as if 
the more to cheer and comfort those who are suffering 
and dying for it.’ 

‘ That may, or may not be,’ said the artist, ‘ here and 
there ; but, in my judgment, if this man-slayer, this 
world-butcher once fastens his clutches upon your tribe, 
he will leave none to write your story. How many 
were left in Palmyra ? — Just, Piso, resume your point 
of observatian, and judge whether this fold of the dra¬ 
pery were better as it is, or joined to the one under it, 
an alteration easily made.’ 

I gave him my opinion, and he went on filing and 
talking. 

‘ And now, Piso, if I must tell you, I have conceived 
a liking for you Christians, and it is for this reason 
partly I would have you set about to escape the evil 
that is at least threatened. Here is my brother, whose 
equal the world does not hold, is become a Christian. 
Then, do you know, here is a family, just in the rear o*- 
our shop, of one Macer, a Christian and a preacher, that 
has won upon us strangely. J see much of them. Some 


A U R E L I A N . 


201 


of his boys are in a room below, helping on by their la¬ 
bor the support of their mother and those who are 
younger, for I trow, Macer himself does little for them, 
whatever he may be doing for the world at large, or its 
great heart as you call it. But, what is more still,’ cried 
he with emphasis, and a jump at the same moment, throw¬ 
ing down his tools, ‘ do you know the Christians have 
some sense of what is good in our way ? they aspire to 
the elegant, as well as others who are in better esteem.’ 

And as he finished, he threw open the doors of a 
small cabinet, and displayed a row of dishes, cups, and 
pitchers, of elegant form and v/orkmanship. 

‘ These,’ he went on, ‘ are for the church of Felix, the 
bishop of the Christians. What they do with them 
I know not; but, as I was told by the bishop, they have 
a table or altar of marble, on which, at certain times, 
they are arranged for some religious rite or other. They 
are not of gold, as they seem, but of silver gilded. 
My brother furnished the designs, and put them into 
the hands of Flaccus, who wrought them. Neither J 
nor my brother could labor at them, as you may believe, 
but it shows a good ambition in the Christians to try for 
the first skill in Rome or the world, — does it not? 
They are a promising people.’ 

Saying which, he closed the doors and flew to his 
work again. 

At the same moment the door of the apartment opened, 
and the brother Demetrius entered accompanied by Pro- 
uus. When our greetings were over. Probus said, con 
tinning as it seemed a conversation just broken off, 

‘ I did all I could to prevent it, but the voice of numbers 
was against me, and of authority too, and, both together, 


202 


A U R E L I A N . 


tliey prevailed. You, I believe, slot d neuter, or indee d. 
I may suppose, knew nothing about the difference V 

‘ As you suppose,’ replied the elder Demetrius, ‘ I 
knew nothing of it, but designed the work and have 
completed it. Here it is.’ And going to the same cab¬ 
inet, again opened the doors and displayed the con¬ 
tents. Probus surveyed them with a melancholy air, 
saying, as he did so, 

‘ I could bear that the vessels, used for the purpose to 
which these are destined, should be made of gold, or 
even of diamond itself, could mines be found to furnish 
it, and skill to hollow it out. For, we know, the wine 
which these shall hold is that which, in the way of sym¬ 
bol, shadows forth the blood of Christ which, by being 
shed on the cross, purchased for us this Christian truth 
and hope ; and what should be set out with every form 
of human honor, if not this V 

‘ I think'so,’ replied Demetrius ; ‘ to that which we 
honor and reverence in our hearts we must add the out¬ 
ward sign and testimony ; especially moreover if we 
would affect, in the same way that ours are, the minds 
of others. Paganism understands this ; and it is the 
pomp and magnificence of her ceremony, the richness 
of the temple service, the grandeur of her architecture, 
and the imposing array of her priests in their robes, 
ministering at the altars or passing through the streets 
in gorgeous procession, with banners, victims, garlands, 
and music, by which the populace are gained and kept. 
That must be founded on just principles, men say, on 
which the great, the learned, and the rich, above all the 
State itself, are so prompt to lavish so much splendor 
flnd wealth.’ 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


203 


• But here is a great danger,’ Probus replied. ‘ This, 
carried too far, may convert religion into show and osten¬ 
tation. Form and ceremony, and all that is merely out¬ 
ward and material, may take the place of the moral. 
Religion may come to be a thing apart by itself, a great 
act, a tremendous and awful rite, a magnificent and im¬ 
posing ceremony, instead of what it is in itself, simply a 
principle of right action toward man and toward God. 
This is at present just the character and position of the 
Roman religion. It is a thing that is to be seen at the 
temples, but nowhere else ; it is a worship through sac¬ 
rifices and prayers, and that is all. The worshipper at 
the temple may be a tyrant at home, a profligate in the 
city, a bad man everywhere, and yet none the less a true 
worshipper. May God save the religion of Christ from 
such corruption ! Yet is the beginning to be discerned. 
A decline has already begun. Rank and power are al¬ 
ready sought with an insane ambition, even by ministers 
of Christ. They are seeking to transfer to Chris¬ 
tianity the same outward splendor, and the same gilded 
trappings, which, in the rites and ceremonies of the 
popular faith, they see so to subdue the imagination, 
and lead men captive. Hence, Piso and Demetrius, 
the golden chair of Felix, and his robes of audience, on 
which there is more gold, as I believe, than would gild 
all these cups and pitchers ; hence, too, the finery of the 
table, the picture behind it, and, in some churches, the 
statues of Christ, of Paul, and Peter. These golden 
vessels for the supper of Christ’s love, I can forgive — I 
can welcome them — but in the rest that has come, and 
is coming, I see signs of danger.’ 

‘ But, most excellent Probus,’ said the younger De 


204 


a U R E L I A N . 


inetrius, ‘ I like not to hear the arts assailed and repre* 
sented dangerous. I have just been telling Piso, that 
you are a people to be respected, for you were begin¬ 
ning to honor the arts. Yet here now you are denoun¬ 
cing them. But, let me ask, what harm could it do any 
good man among you, to come and look at this figure of 
Apollo, or a statue of your Paul or Peter, as you name 
them — supposing they were just men and benefactors 
of their race ? ’ 

‘ There ought to be none,’ Probus replied. ‘ It ought 
to be a source of innocent pleasure, if not of wholesome 
instruction, to gaze upon the imitated form of a good 
man — of a reformer, a benefactor, a prophet. But man 
is so prone to religion, — it is an honorable instinct— 
that you can scarce place before him an object of rev¬ 
erence but he will straightway worship it. What were 
your gods but once men, first revered, then worshipped, 
and now their stone images deemed to be the very gods 
themselves? Thus the original idea — the effect, we 
may believe, of an early revelation — of one supreme 
Deity has been almost lost out of the world. Let the 
figure of Christ be everywhere set before the people in 
stone or metal, and, what with the natural tendency of 
the mind to idolatry, and the force of example in the 
common religion, I fear it would not be long before he, 
whom we now revere as a prophet, would soon be wor¬ 
shipped as a god ; and the disciples whom you have 
named, in like manner, would no longer be remembered 
with gratitude and affection as those who devoted their 
lives to the service of their fellow-men, but be adored as 
inferior Deities, like your Castor and Pollux. I can 
conceive that, in the lapse of ages, men shall be so re* 


A U R E L I A N . 


2U5 


deemed from the gross conceptions that now inthrall 
them concerning both God and his worship, and so 
nourished up to a divine strength by the power of truth, 
they shall be in no danger from such sources ; but shaL 
reap all the pleasure and advantage which can be deri¬ 
ved from beautiful forms of art and the representation of 
great and excellent characters, without ever dreaming 
that any other than the infinite and invisible Spirit of 
the universe is to be worshipped, or held divine. The 
religion of Christ will itself, if aught can do it, bring 
about such a period.’ 

‘ That then will be the time for artists to live, next 
after now,’ said Demetrius of Palmyra. ‘ In the mean¬ 
time, Probus, if Hellenism should decline and die, and 
your strict faith take its place, art will decline and per¬ 
ish. We live chiefly by the gods and their worship.’ 

‘ If our religion,’ replied Pr^bus, ‘ should suffer injury 
from its own professors, in ihef way it has, for a century 
or two more, it will give occupation enough to artists. 
Its corruptions will do the same for you that the reign 
of absolute and perfect truth would.’ 

‘ The gods then grant that the corruptions you speak 
of may come in season, before I die. I am tired of Ju- 
piters, Mercurys, and Apollos. I have a great fancy to 
make a statue of Christ. Brother ! what think you, 
should I reach it ? Most excellent Probus, should I 
make you such an one for your private apartments I do 
not believe you would worship it, and doubtless it would 
afford you pleasure. If you will leave a commission for 
such awork, it shall be set about so soon as this gcd of the 
Emperor’s is safe on his pedestal. What think you ?’ 

IS VOL. I. 


206 


A U R E L I A N . 


• 1 saould judge you took me, Demetrius, for the priest 
of a temple, or a noble of the land. The price of such 
a piece of sculpture would swallow up more than all I 
am worth. Besides, though I might not worship my 
self—though I say not but I might — 1 should give an 
ill example to others, who, if they furnished themselves 
or their churches with similar forms, might not have 
power over themselves, but relapse into the idolatry 
from which they are but just escaped.’ 

‘ All religions, as to their doctrine and precept, are 
alike to me,’ replied*^emetrius, ‘ only, as a general prin¬ 
ciple, i should ever prefer that which has the most 
gods. Rome shows excellent judgment in adopting all 
the gods of the earth, so^that if the worship of one god 
will not bring prosperity to the nation, there are others 
in plenty to try their foTtnnjp with again. Never doubt, 
brother, that it is becausijyou Christians have no gods, 
that the populace and othws are so hostile to you. Only 
set up a few images of Christ, and some of the other 
founders of the religion, and your peace will be made. 
Otherwise I fear this man-killer will, like some vulture, 
pounce upon you and tear you piecemeal. What, 
brother, have you learned of Aurelia ? ’ 

‘ Nothing wifh certainty. I could find only a confir¬ 
mation from every mouth, but based on no certain 
knowledge, of the rumor that reached us early in the 
morning. But what is so universally reported, generally 
turns out true. I should, however, if I believed the 
fact of her imprisonment, doubt the cause. I said that 
I could conceive of no other cause, and feared that it 
the fact were so, the religion of Aurelian was the reason 
of her being so dealt with. It was like Aurelian, ;f be 


A U R E LIaN. 


207 


had resolved upon oppressing the Christians to any ex¬ 
tent whatever, that he should begin with those who 
were nearest to him , first with his own blood, and then 
with those of his household.’ 

With this, and such like conversation, I passed a 
pleasant hour at the rooms of Demetrius. 

My wish was, as I turned from the apartments of De¬ 
metrius, to seek the Emperor or Livia, and learn from 
them the exact truth concerning the reports current 
through the city. But, giving way to that weakness 
which defers to the latest possible moment the confirma¬ 
tion of painful news, and the resolution of doubts which 
one would rather should remain as doubts than be de¬ 
termined the wrong way, in melancholy mood, I turned 
and retraced my steps. My melancholy was changed to 
‘serious apprehension by all that I observed and heard 
on my way to the Ccelian. As the crowd in this great 
avenue, the Suburra, pressed by me, it was easy to 
gather that the Christians had become the universal 
topic of conversation and dispute. The name of the 
unhappy Aurelia frequently caught my ear. Threaten¬ 
ing and ferocious language dropt from many, who seemed 
glad that at length an Emperor had arisen who would 
prove faithful to the institutions of the country. I joined 
a little group of gazers before the window of the rooms 
of Periander, at which something rare and beautiful is 
always to be seen, who, I found, were looking intently 
at a picture, apparently just from the hands of the artist, 
which represented Rome under the form of a beautiful 
woman—Livia had served as the model—with a diadem, 
upon her head, and the badges of kingly authority is 


20S 


A U R E L I A N . 


her hands, and at her side a priest of the Temple of Ju' 
pi ter, “ Greatest and Best”, in whose face and form 
might plainly be traced the cruel features of Pronto. The 
world was around them. On the lowest earth, with 
dark shadows settling over them, lay scattered and bro¬ 
ken, in dishonor and dust, the emblems of all the religions 
of the world, their temples fallen and in ruins. Among 
them, in the front ground of the picture, was the 
prostrate cross, shattered as if dashed from the church, 
whose dilapidated walls and wide-spread fragments bore 
testimony not so much to the wasting power of time as 
to the rude hand of popular violence ; while, rearing 
themselves up into a higher atmosphere, the temples of 
the gods of Rome stood beautiful and perfect, bathed in 
the glowing light of a morning sun. The allegory was 
plain and obvious enough. There was little attractive, 
save the wonderful art with which it was done. This 
riveted the eye ; and that being gained, the bitter and 
triumphant bigotry of the ideas set forth had time to 
make its way into the heart of the beholder, and help to 
change its warm blood to gall. Who but must be won 
by the form and countenance of the beautiful Livia ? 
and, confounding Rome with her, be inspired with a 
new devotion to his country, and its religion, and its 
lovely queen ? The work was inflaming and insidious, 
as it was beautiful. This was seen in what it drew 
from those among whom I stood. 

‘ By Jupiter !’ said one, ‘ that ^ well done. They 
are all down, who can deny it ! Those are ruins not to 
be built up again. Who, I wonder, is the artist ? He 
must be a Roman to the last drop of his blood, aad tke 
east hair of his beard.’ 


A U R E L I A N . 


L>oy 


‘ His name is Sporus,’ replied his companion, ‘ as I 
hear, a kinsman of Pronto, the priest of Apollo.’ 

‘ Ah, that’s the reason the priest figures here,’ cried 
the first, ‘ and the Empress too; for they say nobody is 
more at the Gardens than Pronto. Well, he’s just the 
man for his place. If any man can bring up the tem¬ 
ples again, it’s he. Religion is no sham at the Temple 
of the Sun. The priests are all what they pretend to 
be. Let others do so, and we shall have as much rea¬ 
son to thank the Emperor for what he has done for the 
gods— and so for us all — as for what he has done for 
the army, the empire, and the city.’ 

‘ You say well,’ rejoined the other. ‘ He is for once 
a man, who, if he will, may make Rome what she was 
before the empire, a people that honored the gods. And 
this picture seems as if it spoke out his very plans, and 
I should not wonder if it were so.’ 

‘ Never doubt it. See, here lies a Temple of Isis 
flat enough ; next to it one of the accursed tribe of 
Jews. And what ruder pile is that ?’ 

‘ That must be a Temple of the British worship, as I 
think. But the best of all, is this Christian church : 
see how the wretches fly, while the work goes on ! In 
my notion, this paints what we may soon see.’ 

‘ I believe it! The gods grant it so ! Old men, in my 
judgment, will live to see it all acted out. Do you hear 
what is said ? That Aurelian has put fo death his own 
niece, the princess Aurelia V 

‘ That’s likely enough,’ said another. ‘ no one can 
doubt it. ’Tis easy news to believe in Rome. But the 
question is what for ?’ 

18* VOL. I. 


210 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ For what else but for her impiety, and her aimi to 
convert Mucapor to her own ways.’ 

‘ Well, there is no telling, and it’s no great matter ; 
time will show. Meanwhile, Aurelian forever ! He’s 
the man for me !’ 

‘ Truly is he,’ said one at his side, who had not spo¬ 
ken before, ‘ for thy life is spent at the amphitheatres, 
and he is a good caterer for thee, sending in ample sup¬ 
plies of lions and men.’ 

‘Whew! who is here? Take care! Your tongue, 
old man, has short space to wag in.’ 

‘ I am no Christian, knave, but I trust I am a man 
and that is more than any can say of you, that know 
you. Out upon you for a savage !’ 

The little crowd burst into loud laughter at this, and 
with various abusive epithets moved away. The ok 
man addressed himself to me, who alone remained as 
they withdrew,— 

‘ Aurelian, I believe, would do well enough were he 
let alone. He is inclined to cruelty, I know : but no¬ 
body can deny that, cruel or not, he has wrought most 
beneficial changes both in the army and in the city. He 
has been in some sort, up to within the last half year, a 
censor, greater than Valerian ; a reformer, greater and 
better than even he. Had he not been crazed by his 
successes in the East, and were he not now led, and 
driven, and maddened, by the whole priesthood of Rome, 
with the hell-born Fronto at their head, we might look 
for a new and a better Rome. But, as it is, I fear these 
young savages, who are just gone, will .see all fulfilled 
they are praying for. A fair day to you.’ 

And he too turned away Others were come into the 


A U RE LIAN. 


same spot, and for a long time did Ilis/cn lo similar 
language. Many came, looked, said nothing, and look 
their way, with paler face, and head depressed, silent 
under the imprecations heaped upon the atheists, but 
manifestly either of their side in sympathy, or else oi 
the very atheists themselves. 

I now sought my home, tired of the streets, and of all 
1 had seen and heard. Many of my acquaintance, and 
friends passed me on the way, in whose altered manner 
I could behold the same signs which, in ruder form, I 
had just seen at the window of Periander. Not, Faus- 
ta, that all my friends of the Roman faith are summer 
ones, but that, perhaps, most are. Many among them, 
though attached firmly as my mother to the existing in¬ 
stitutions, are yet, like her, possessed of the common 
sentiments of humanity, and would venture much or all 
to divert the merest shadow of harm from my head. 
Among these, I still pass some of my pleasantest and 
most instructive hours—for with them the various ques¬ 
tions involved in the whole subject of religion, are dis¬ 
cussed with the most perfect freedom and mutual confi¬ 
dence. Varus, the prefect, whom I met among others, 
greeted me with unchanged courtesy. His sweetest 
smile was on his countenance as he swept by me, \Yish- 
ing me a happy day. How much more tolerable is the 
rude aversion, or loud reproaches of those I have told 
you of, than this honied suavity, that means nothing, 
and would be still the same though I were on the way 
lo the block. 

As I entered my library, Solon accosted me, to say, 
that there had been one lately there most urgent to see 
me. From his account. I could suppose it to be none 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


o j 9 

Other than the Jew Isaac, who, Milo has informed me, 
is now returned to Rome, which he resorts to as his 
most permanent home. Solon said that, though assured 
I was not at home, he would not be kept back, but pres¬ 
sed on into the house, saying that ‘ these Roman nobles 
often sat quietly in their grand halls, while they were 
denied to their poor clients. Piso was an old acquaint¬ 
ance of his when in Palmyra, and he had somewhat 
of moment to communicate to him, and must see him.’ 

‘ No sooner,’ said Solon, ‘ had he got into the library, 
the like of which, I may safely affirm, he had never seen 
before, for his raiment betokened a poor and ragged life, 
than he stood, and gazed as much at his ease as if it had 
been his own, and then, by Hercules ! unbuttoning his 
pack, for he was burdened with one both before and be¬ 
hind, he threw his old limbs upon a couch, and began to 
survey the room ! I could not but ask him. If he were 
the elder Piso, old Cneius Piso, come back from Persia, 
in Persian beard and gown ?—‘ Old man,’ said he, ‘ your 
brain is turned with many books, and the narrow life 
you lead here, shut out from the living world of man. 
One man is worth all the books ever writ, save those of 
Moses. Go out into the streets and read him, and your 
senses will come again. Cneius Piso ! Take you me 
for a spirit ? I am Isaac the Jew, citizen of the world, 
and dealer in more rarities and valuables than you ever 
saw or dreamed of. Shall I open my parcels for thee V 
No, said I, I would not take thy poor gewgaws for a 
gift. One worm-eaten book is worth them all. — ‘ God 
restore thy reason !’ said he, ‘ and give thee wisdom be¬ 
fore thou diest ; and that, by thy wrinkles and hairless 
pate must be soon.’ What more of false he would 


A U R E L I A N . 


21G 


have added I know not, for at that moment he sprang 
from where he sat like one suddenly mad, exclaiming-, 
‘ Holy Abraham ! what do my eyes behold, or do they 
lie ? Surely that is Moses ! Never was he on Sinai, if 
his image be not here ! Happy Piso ! and happy Isaac 
to be the instrument of such grace ! Who could have 
thought it ? And yet many a time, in my dreams, have 
I beheld him, with a beard like mine, his hat on his 
head, his staff in his hand, as if standing at the table of 
the Passover, the princess with him, and — dreams will 
do such things — a brood of little chickens at their side. 
And now — save the last — it is all come to pass. And 
here, too, who may this be ? who, but Aaron, the 
younger and milder ! He was the speaker, and lo ! his 
hand is stretched out ! And this young Joseph is at 
his knee the better to interpret his character to the be¬ 
holder. Moses and Aaron in the chief room of. a Ro¬ 
man senator, and he, a Piso ! Now, Isaac, thou mayest 
tie on thy pack, and take thy leave with a merry heart, 
for God, if never before, now accepteth thy works.’ And 
much more, noble sir, in the same raving way, which 
was more dark to my understanding than the darkest 
pages of Aristotle.’ 

I gathered from Solon, that he would return in the 
evening in the hope to see me, for he had that to im¬ 
part which concerned nearly my welfare. 

I was watching with Julia, from the portico w'hich 
fronts the Esquiline and overlooks the city, the last rays 
of the declining sun, as they gilded the roofs and domes 
of the vast sea of building before us, lingering last upon, 
and turning to gold the brazen statues of Antonine and 


i214 


A U R E L I A N . 


of Trajan, when Milo approached us, saying that Isaar 
had returned. He was in a moment more with us. 

‘ Most noble Piso,’ said he, ‘ I joy to see thee again ; 
and this morning, I doubt not, I should have seen thee, 
but for the obstinacy of an ancient man, whose wits 
seem to have been left behind as he has gone onward. 
I seek thee, Piso, for matters of moment. Great prin¬ 
cess,’ he suddenly cried, turning to Julia with as pro¬ 
found a reverence as his double burden would allow, 
‘ glad am I to greet thee in Rome ; not glad that thou 
wert forced to flee here, but glad that if, out of Pal¬ 
myra,' thou art here in the heart of all that can best 
minister to thy wants. Not a wish can arise in the 
heart but Rome can answer it. Nay, thou canst have 
few for that which is rare and costly, but even I can an¬ 
swer them. Hast thou ever seen, princess, those dia¬ 
monds brought from the caves of mountains a thousand 
miles in the heart of India, in which there lurks a tint, 
if I may so name it, like this last blush of the western 
sky ? They are rarer than humanity in a Roman, or 
apostacy in a Jew, or truth in a Christian. I shall 
show thee one.’ And he fell to unlacing his pack, and 
drawing forth its treasures. 

Julia assured him, she should see with pleasure what¬ 
ever he could show her of rich or rare. 

‘ There are, lady, jewelers, as they name themselves 
in Rome, who dwell in magnificent houses, and whose 
shops are half the length of a street, who cannot show 
you what Isaac can out of an old goatskin pack. And 
how should they ? Have they, as I have, traveled the 
earth’s surface and trafficked between crown and crown ? 
What king is there, whose necessities I have not rcliev 


A U R E L I A N. 


215 


ed by purchasing his rarest gems ; or whose vanity J 
na'/e not pleased by selling him the spoils of another ? 
Old Sapor, proud as he was, was more than once in 
the grasp of Isaac. There ! it is in this case — down, 
you see, in the most secret part of my pack — but 
who would look for wealth under this sordid covering ? 
as who, lady, for a soul within this shriveled and shat¬ 
tered body ? yet is there one there. In such outside, 
both of body and bag, is my safety. Who cares to stop 
the poor man, or hold parley with him ? None so free 
of the world and its high ways as he ; safe alike in the 
streets of Rome, and on the deserts of Arabia. His rags 
are a shield stouter than one of seven-fold bull’s hide. 
Never but in such guise could I bear such jewels 
over the earth’s surface. Here, lady, is the gem ; never 
has it yet pressed the finger of queen or subject. The 
stone 1 brought from the East, and Demetrius, here in 
Rome, hath added the gold. Give me so much pleas¬ 
ure — ’ 

And he placed it upon Julia’s finger. It flashed a 
light such as we never before saw in stone. It was 
evidently a most rare and costly gem. It was of great 
size and of a hue such as I had never before seen. 

‘ This is a queen’s ring, Isaac,’ said Julia — ‘ and for 
none else.’ 

‘ It well becomes the daughter of a queen ’ — replied 
the Jew, ‘ and the wife of Piso — specially seeing that 
— Ah, Piso ! Piso ! how was I overjoyed to-day to see 
in thy room the evidence that my counsels had not been 
thrown away. The Christian did not gain thee with 
all his cunning—’ 

Nay, Isaac ’ — I here interrupted him — ‘youmus* 


216 


A U U E L I A N . 


not let your benevolent wishes lead you into error. 1 
am not yet a Jew. Those images that caught your e} e 
were not wholly such as you took them for.’ 

‘ Well, well,’ said the philosophic Jew, ‘ rumor then 
has for once spoken the truth. She has long, as I learn, 
reported thee Christian : but I believed it not. And to¬ 
day, when I looked upon those statues, I pleased myself 
with the thought that thou, and the princess, like her 
august mother, had joined themselves to Israel. But if 
it be not so, then have I an errand for thee, which, but 
now, I hoped I might not be bound to deliver. Piso, 
there is danger brewing for thee, and for all who hold 
with thee ! ’ 

‘ So I hear, Isaac, on all sides, and partly believe it. 
But the rumor is far beyond the truth, I do not doubt.’ 

‘ I think not so,’ said Isaac. ‘ I believe the truth is 
beyond the rumor. Aurelian intends more and worse 
than he has spoken ; and already has he dipt his hand 
in blood ! ’ 

‘ What say you ? how is it you mean ?’ said Julia. 

‘ Whose name but Aurelia’s has been in the city^’s 
ears these many days ? I can tell you, what is known 
as yet not beyond the Emperor’s palace and the 
priest’s, Aurelia is dead ! ’ 

‘ Sport not with us, Isaac ! ’ 

‘ I tell you, Piso, the simple truth. Aurelia has paid 
with her life for her faith. I know it from more than 
one whose knowledge in the matter is good as sight. 
It was in the dungeons of the Fabrician bridge, that she 
was dealt with by Pronto the priest of Apollo.’ 

‘ Aurelian then,’ said Julia, ‘ has thrust his sickle into 
another field slaughter, and will not draw it out till 


A U R E L I A N 


217 


he swims in Christian blood, as once before in Syrian. 
God help these poor souls ’ What, Isaac, was the man¬ 
ner of her death, if you have heard so much ? ’ 

‘ I have heard only,’ replied Isaac, ‘ that, after long 
endeavor on the part of Aurelian and the priest to draw 
her from her faith while yet at the palace, she^was con¬ 
veyed to the prisons I have named, and there given over 
to Fronto and the executioners, with this only restric¬ 
tion, that if neither threats, nor persuasions, nor the hor¬ 
rid array of engines, could bend her, then should she be 
beheaded without either scourging or torture. And so 
it was done. She wept, ’t is said, as it were without 
ceasing, from the time she left the gardens; but to the 
priest would answer never a word to all his threats, 
entreaties, or promises ;• except once, when that wicked 
minister said to her, ‘ that except she in reality and truth 
would curse Christ and sacrifice, he would report that 
she had done so, and so liberate her and return her to 
the palace : ’ — at which, ’t is said, that on the instant 
her tears ceased, her eyes flashed lightning, and with a 
voice, which took the terrific tones of Aurelian himself, 
she said, ‘ I dare thee to it, base priest! Aurelian is an 
honorable man — though cruel as the grave — and my 
simple word, which never vet he doubted, would weigh 
more than oaths from thee, though piled to heaven ! 
Do thy worst then, quick ! ’ Whereupon the priest, white 
with wrath, first sprang toward her as if he had been a 
beast set to devour her, drawing at the same moment a 
knife from his robes ; but, others being there, he stopped, 
and cried to the executioner to do his work — raving 
19 VOL. I. 


A U R E LI A N . 


?I8 

that he had it not in his power first to torment hei 
Aurelia was then instantly beheaded.’ 

We were silent as he ended, Julia dissolved in tears 
Isaac went on. 

‘ This is great testimony, Piso, which is borne to thy 
faith. A poor, weak girl, alone, with not one to look 
on and encourage, in such a place, and in the clutches 
of such a hard-hearted wretch, to die without once 
yielding to her fears or the weakness of her tender na¬ 
ture — it is a thing hardly to be believed, and full of pity. 
Piso, thou wilt despise me when I say that my tribe re¬ 
joices at this, and laughs; that the Jew is seen carrying 
the news from house to house, and secretly feeding on 
it as a sweet morsel! And why should he not ? An¬ 
swer me that, Roman ! Answer me that, Christian ! 
In thee, Piso, and in every Roman like thee, there is 
compacted into one the enmity that has both desolated 
my country, and— far as mortal arm may do so — 
dragged down to the earth, her altars and her worship. 
Judea was once happy in her ancient faith ; and hap¬ 
pier than all in that great hope inspired by our prophets 
in endless line, of the advent, in the opening ages, of one 
who should redeem our land from the oppressor, and 
give to her the empire of the world. Messiah, for whom 
we waited, and while we waited were content to bear 
ihe insults and aggressions of the whole earth — know¬ 
ing the day of vengeance was not far off— was to be to 
Judea more than Aurelian to Rome. He was to be our 
prophet, our priest, and our king, all in one ; not man 
only, but the favored and beloved of God, his Son ; and 
his empire was not to be like this of Rome, hemmed in 
bv this sea and that, hedged about by barbarians on one 


A U R E L I A N. 


219 


side and another, bounded by rivers and hills, but was 
to stretch over the habitable earth, and Rome itself to be 
swallowed up in the great possession as a little island 
in the sea. And then this great kingdom was never to 
end. It could not be diminished by an enemy taking 
from it this province and another, as with Rome, nor 
could there be out of it any power whatever that could 
assail it; for, by the interference of God, through the 
right arm of our great Prince, fear, and the very spirit of 
submission, were to fall on every heart. All was to be 
Judea’s, and Judea’s forever ; the kingdom was to be 
over the whole earth ; and the reign forever and ever. 
And in those ages peace was to be on the earth, and 
universal love. God was to be worshipped by all ac¬ 
cording to our law, and idolatry and error to cease and 
come to an end. In this hope, I say, we were happy, 
in spite of all our vexations. In every heart in our 
land, whatever sorrows or sufferings might betide, there 
was a little corner where the spirit could retire and com¬ 
fort itself with this vision of futurity. Among all the 
cities of our land, and far away among the rocks and val- 
lies by Jordan and the salt sea, and the mountains of Leba¬ 
non, there were no others to be found than men, women, 
and children, happy in this belief, and by it bound into 
one band of lovers and friends. And what think you hap¬ 
pened ? I need not tell you. There came, as thou 
knowest, this false prophet of Gallilee, and beguiled the 
people with his smooth words, and perverted the sense 
of the prophets, and sowed difference and discord among 
the people ; and the cherished vision, upon which the 
nation had lived and grown, fled like a dream. The 
Gallilean imnostor planted himself upon the soil and his 


220 


A U R E L I A N. 


roots of poison struck down, and his broad limbs shoi 
abroad, and half the nation was lost. Its unity wa? 
gone, its peace lost, its heart broken, its hope, though 
living still, yet obscured and perplexed. Canst thou 
wonder then Piso, or thou, thou weeping princess, that 
the Jew stands by and laughs when the Christian’s turn 
comes, and the oppressor is oppressed, the destroyer 
destroyed ? And when, Piso, the Christian had done 
his worst, despoiling us of our faith, our hope, our prince, 
and our God ; not satisfied, he brought the Roman upon 
us, and despoiled us of our country itself. Now, and 
for two centuries, all is gone. Judea, the beauti¬ 
ful land, sits solitary and sad. Her sons and daughters 
wanderers over the earth, and trodden into the dust. 
When shall the light arise ! and he, whom we yet look 
for, come and turn back the flood that has swept over 
us, and reverse the fortunes befallen to one and the 
other ? The chariot of God tarries ; but it does not 
halt. The wheels are turning, and when it is not 
thought of, it will come rolling onward with the voice of 
many thunders, and the great restoration shall be made, 
and a just judgment be meted out to all. What won 
der, I say then, Piso, if my people look on and laugh, 
when this double enemy is in straits ? when the Chris¬ 
tian and Roman in one, is caught in the snare and can 
not escape ? That laugh will ring through the streets 
of Rome, and will out-sound the roaring of the lions and 
the shouts of the theatre. Nature is strong in man, 
Piso, and I do not believe thou wilt think the worse of 
our people, if bearing what they have, this nature should 
break forth. Hate them not altogether, Roman, when 
thou shalt see them busy at the engines or the stake, 


A i; R E L I A N . 


221 


ihe theatres. Remember the cause ! Remember the 
cause ! But we are not all such. I wish, Piso, thou 
couldst abandon this faith. There will else be no safety 
to thee, I fear, ere not many days. What has overtaken 
the lady Aurelia, of the very family of the Emperor, will 
surely overtake others. Piso, I would fain serve thee, if 
I may. Though I hate the Roman, and the Christian, 
and thee, as a Jew, yet so am I, that I cannot hate them 
as a man, or not unto death ; and thee do I love. Now 
it is my counsel, that thou do in season escape. Now 
thou canst do it; wait but a few days, and, perhaps, thou 
canst no longer. What I say is, fly ! and, it were best, 
to the farthest east ; first, to Palmyra, and then, if need 
be, to Persia. This, Piso, is what I am come for.’ 

' Isaac, this all agrees with the same goodness—’ 

‘ I am a poor, miserable wretch, whom God may for¬ 
give, because his compassions never fail, but who has 
no claim on his mercy, and will be content to sit hereaf¬ 
ter where he shall but just catch, now and then, a 
glimpse of the righteous.’ 

‘ I must speak my thoughts, not yours, Isaac. This 
all agrees with what we have known of you ; and, with 
all our hearts, you have our thanks. But we are bound 
to this place by ties stronger than any that bind us to 
life, and must not depart.’ 

‘ Say not so ! Lady, speak ! Why should ye re¬ 
main to add to the number that must fall ? Rank will 
not stand in the way of Aurelian.’ 

‘ That we know well, Isaac,’ said Julia. ‘ We should 
aot look for any shield such as that to protect us, nor 
for any other. Life is not the chief thing, Isaac. Wh it 
19 * 


VOL. I. 


222 


A U R E L I A N . 


is life, without liberty ? Would you live, a slave ? and 
is not he the meanest slave, who bends his will to 
another ? who renounces the thoughts he dearly cher¬ 
ishes for another’s humor ? Who will beggar the soul, 
to save, or serve, the body ?’ 

‘ Alas, princess, I fear there is more courage in thee, 
woman as thou art, than in this old frame ! I love my 
faith, too, princess, and I labor for it in my way ; but, 
may the God of Abraham spare me the last trial ! And 
wouldst thou give up thy body to the tormentors and 
the executioner, to keep the singleness of thy mind, so 
that merely a few little thoughts, which no man can 
see, may run in and out of it, as they list ? 

‘ Even so, Isaac.’ 

‘ It is wonderful,’ exclaimed the Jew, ‘ what a strength 
there is in man ! how, for an opinion, which can be 
neither bought, nor sold, nor weighed, nor handled, nor 
ieen — a thing, that, by the side of lands, and gold, and 
houses, seems less than the dust of the balance — men 
and women, yea, and little children, will suffer and die ;' 
when a word, too, which is but a little breath blown out 
of the mouth, would save them ! ’ 

‘ But, it is no longer wonderful,’ said Julia, ‘ when we 
look at our whole selves, and not only at one part. We 
are all double, one part, of earth, another, of heaven ; 
one part, gross body, the other, etherial spirit; one part, 
life of the body, the other, life of the soul. Which ol 
these parts is the better, it is not hard to determine. 
Should I gain much by defiling the heavenly, for the 
sake of the earthly ? by injuring the mind, for the 
preservation of the body ; by keeping longer the life ^ 
live now, but darkening over the prospect of the lifetha^ 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘J23 

is hereafter ? If I possess a single truth, which I firmly 
believe to be a truth, I cannot say that it is a lie, for the 
sake of some present benefit or deliverance, without fix¬ 
ing a stain thereby, not on the body, which by and bv 
perishes, but on the soul, which is immortal ; and which 
\Amuld then forever bear about with it the unsightly spot.’ 

‘ It is so ; it is as you say, lady ; and rarely has the 
Jew been known to deny his name and his faith. Since 
you have spoken, I find thoughts called up which have 
long slept. Despise me not, for my proposal, yet I 
would there were a way of escape ! Flight now, would 
not be denial, or apostacy.’ 

‘ It would not,’ said Julia. ‘ And we may not judge with 
harshness those whose human courage fails them under 
the apprehension of the sufferings which often await the 
persecuted. But, with my convictions, and Piso’s, the 
guilt and baseness of flight or concealment would be 
little less than that of denial or apostacy. We have 
chosen this religion for its divine truth, and its immor¬ 
tal prospects ; we believe it a good which God has sent 
to us ; we believe it the most valuable possession we 
hold ; we believe it essential to the world’s improve¬ 
ment and happiness. Believing it thus, we must stand 
by it ; and, if it come to this — as I trust in Heaven it 
will not, notwithstanding the darkness of the portents — 
that our regard for it will be questioned except we die 
for it — then we will die.’ 

Isaac rose, and began to fasten on his pack. As ha 
did so, he said, 

‘ Excellent lady, I grieve that thou shouldst be 
brought from thy far home, and those warm and sunny 
skies, to meet the rude shocks of this wintry land. It 


824 A U R E L 1 A N . 

was enough to see what thou didst there, and to know 
what befell thy ancient friends. The ways of Provi¬ 
dence, to our eyes, are darker than the Egyptian night, 
brought upon that land by the hand of Moses. It is 
darkness solid and impenetrable. The mole sees far¬ 
ther toward the earth’s centre, than does my dim eye 
into the judgments of God. And what wonder ? when 
he is God looking down upon earth and man’s ways as 
I upon an ant-hill, and seeing all at once. To such 
an eye, lady, that may be best which to mine is worst.’ 

‘ I believe it is often so, Isaac,’ replied Julia. ‘ Just 
as in nauseous drugs or rankest poisons there is hid 
den away medicinal virtue, so is there balm for the soul, 
by which its worst diseases are healed and its highest 
health promoted, in sufferings, which, as they first fall 
upon us, we lament as unmitigated evil. I know of no 
state of mind so proper to beings like us, as that indi¬ 
cated by a saying of Christ, which I shall repeat to you, 
though you honor not its source, and which seems to 
me to comprehend all religion and philosophy, “ Not 
my will, but thine, 0 God, be done !” We never take 
our true position, and so never can be contented and 
happy, till we renounce our own will, and believe all the 
whole providence of God to be wisest and best, simply 
because it is his. Should I dare, were the power this 
moment given me, to strike out for myself my path 
in life, arrange its events, fix my lot ? Not the most 
trivial incident can be named that I should not tremble 
^0 order otherwise than as it happens.’ 

‘ There is wisdom, princess, in the maxim of thy 
prophet, and its spirit is found in many of the sayings 
of truer prophets who went before him, whos^ words 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


225 


are familiar to thy royal mother, though, I fear, they 
are not to thee ; a misfortune, wholly to be traced to 
that misadventure of thine, Piso, in being thrown into 
the company of the Christian Probus on board the Med¬ 
iterranean trader. Had I been alone with thee on that 
voyage, who can say that thou wouldst not now have 
been what, but this morning, I took thee for, as I looked 
upon those marble figures ? ’ 

‘ But, Isaac, forget not your own principles,’ said Ju¬ 
lia. ‘ May you, who cannot, as you have said, see the 
end from the beginning, and whose sight is but a mole’s, 
dare to complain of the providence which threw Piso 
into the society of the Christian Probus ? I am sure you 
would not, on reflection, re-arrange those events, were 
it now permitted you. And seeing, Isaac, how much 
better things are ordered by the Deity than we could do 
it, and how we should choose voluntarily to surrender 
all into his hands, whose wisdom is so much more 
perfect, and whose power is so much more vast, than 
ours, ought we not, as a necessary consequence of 
this, to acquiesce in events without complaint, when they 
have once occurred ? If Providence had made both Piso 
and Probus Christians, then ought you not to complain, 
but acquiesce ; and, more than that, revere the Provi¬ 
dence that has done it, and love those none the less 
whom it has directed into the path in which it would 
have them go. True piety, is the mother of charity.’ 

‘ Princess,’ rejoined Isaac, ‘ you are right. The true 
love of God cannot exist, without making us true lovers 
of man ; and Piso I do love, and think none the worse 
of him for his Chistian name. But, touching Probus, 
and others, I experience some difficulty. Yet may L 


226 


AURELIA N. 


perhaps, escape thus — I may love them as men, ye< 
hale them as Christians ; just as I would bind up the 
wounds of a thief or an assassin, whom I found by the 
wayside, and yet the next hour bear witness against 
him, and without compunction behold him swinging 
upon the gibbet ! It is hard, lady, for the Jew to love a 
Christian and a Roman. — But how have I been led 
away from what I wished chiefly to say before depart¬ 
ing ! When I spake just now of the darkness of Prov¬ 
idence, I was thinking, Piso, of my journey across the 
desert for thy Persian brother, Calpurnius. That, as I 
then said to thee, was dark to me. I could not compre¬ 
hend how it should come to pass that I, a Jew, of no 
less zeal than Simon Ben Gorah himself, should tempt 
such dangers in the service of thee, a Roman, and half 
a Christian.’ 

‘ And is the enigma solved at length ?’ asked Julia. 

‘ I could have interpreted it by saying that the merit of 
doing a benevolent action was its solution.’ 

‘ That was little or nothing, princess. But I confess 
to thee, that the two gold talents of Jerusalem were 
much. Still, neither they, nor what profit I made in 
the streets of Ecbatana, and even out of that new Solo¬ 
mon the hospitable Levi, clearly explained the riddle. 

I have been in darkness till of late. And how, think 
you, the darkness has been dispersed ? ’ 

‘ We cannot tell.’ 

‘ I believe not. Piso ! princess I am the hr.ppiest 
man in Rome.’ 

‘ Not happier, Isaac, than Civilis the perfumer 

‘Name him not, Piso. Of all the men — he is no 
nan — of all the living things in Rome I hold him 


ATJRELIAN . 


221 


meanest. Him, Piso, I hate. Why, I will not tell thee, 
but thou mayest guess. Nay, not now. I would have 
thee first know why I am the happiest man in Rome. 
Remember you the woman and the child, whom, in the 
midst of that burning desert, we found sitting, more dead 
than alive, at the roots of a cedar — the wife, as we af¬ 
terwards found, of Hassan the camel-driver — and how 
that child, the living resemblance of my dead Joseph, 
wound itself round my heart, and how I implored the 
mother to trust it to me as mine, and I would make it 
richer than the richest of Ecbatana ? ’ 

‘ We remember it all well.’ 

‘ Well, rejoice with me ! Hassan is dead !’ 

‘ Rejoice in her husband’s death ? Nay, that we can¬ 
not do. Milo will rejoice with thee.’ 

‘ Rejoice with me, then, that Hassan, being dead by 
the providence of God, Hagar and Ishmael are now 
mine ! ’— and the Jew threw down his pack again in the 
excess of his joy, and strode wildly about the portico. 

‘ This is something indeed,’ said Julia. ‘ Now, we 
can rejoice sincerely with you. But how happened all 
this ? When, and how, have you obtained the news ? ’ 
‘ Hassan,’ replied Isaac, ‘ as Providence willed it, died 
in Palmyra. His disconsolate widow, hearing of his 
death, in her poverty and affliction bethought herself of 
me, and applied, for intelligence of me, to Levi ; from 
whom a letter came, saying that Hagar had made now 
on her part the proposal that had once been made on 
mine — that Ishmael should be mine, provided, he was 
not to be separated from his mother and a sister oldei 
than he by four years. I, indeed, proposed not for the 
woman, but for the child only — nor for the sister. Bui 


22S 


A U t L L 1 A N . 


they Will all be welcome, mey must, by this, be in 
Palmyra on their way to Rome. Yes, they will be all 
welcome ! for now once more shall the pleasant bonds 
of a home hold me, and the sounds of children’s voices— 
sweeter to my ear than will ever be the harps of angels 
though Gabriel sweep the strings. Already, in the street 
Janus, where our tribe most resort, have I purchased 
me a house ; not, Roman, such a one as I dwelt in in 
Palmyra, where thou and thy foolish slave searrhed me 
out, but large and well-ordered, abounding with all that 
woman’s heart could most desire. And now what think 
you of all this ? whither tends it ? to what leads all this 
long and costly preparation ? what think you is to come 
of it ? I have my own judgment. This I know, it can¬ 
not be all for this, that a little child of a few years should 
come and dwell with an old man little removed from 
the very borders of the grave ! Had it been only for 
this, so large and long a train of strange and wild events 
would not have been laid. This child, Piso, is more 
than he seems ! take that and treasure it up. It is to 
this the finger of God has all along pointed. He is 
more than he seems ! What he will be I say not, but I 
can dimly — nay clearly guess. And his mother ! Piso, 
what will you think when I say that she is a Jewess ! 
and his father — what will you think when I tell you 
that he was born upon the banks of the Gallilean lake ? 
—that misfortunes and the love of a wandering life drew 
him from Judea to the farther East, and to a temporary, 
yet but apparent apostacy, I am persuaded, from his 
proper faith ? This to me is all wonderful. Never 
have I doubted,-that by my hand, by me as a mediator, 
some great good wa-s to accrue to Jerusalem. And now 


A U R E L I A N. 


229 


the jlouds divide, and my eye sees what hi^ oeen so 
long concealed. It shall all come to pass, before thy 
young frame, princess, shall be touched by years.’ 

‘ We wish you all happiness and joy, Isaac,’ replied 
Julia ; ‘ and soon as this young family shall have reach 
ed your dwelling, we shall trust to see them all, specially 
this young object of thy great expectations.’ 

Isaac again fastened on his pack, and taking leave of 
us turned to depart, but ere he did so, he paused — fixed 
his dark eyes upon us— hesitated — and then said, 

‘ Lady, if trouble flow in upon you here in Rome, and 
thou wilt not fly, as I have counseled, to Palmyra ; but 
thou shouldst by and by change thy mind and desire 
safety, or Piso should wish thee safe — perhaps, that 
by thy life thou raightest work more mightily for thy 
faith than thou fAmldst do by thy death — for often¬ 
times it is not by dyntg that we best serve God, or a great 
cause, but by living—then, bethink thee of my dwelling 
in the street Janus, where, if thou shouldst once come, I 
would challenge all the blood-hounds in Rome, and what 
is more and worse. Pronto and Varus leagued, to find 
thee. ■ Peace be with you.’ 

And so saying, he quickly parted from us. 

All Rome, Fausta, holds not a man of a larger heart 
ti>an Isaac the Jew. For us, Christians as we are, 
there is I believe no evil to himself he would not haz¬ 
ard, if, in no other way, he could shield us from the dan¬ 
gers that impend. In his conscience he feels bound to 
hate us, and, often, from the language he uses, it might 
be inferred that he does so. But in any serious expres¬ 
sion of his feelings, his hum>.‘' affections ever obtain the 
20 'woL. I. 


^30 


A U R E L I A N . 


victory over the obligations of hatred, which his love of 
country, as he thinks, imposes upon him, and it would 
be difficult for him to manifest a warmer regard toward 
any of his ov\ n tribe, than he does toward Julia and my¬ 
self. He is firmly persuaded, that providence is using 
him as an instrument, by which to effect the redemption 
and deliverance of his country ; not that he himself is 
to prove the messiah of his nation — as they term their 
great expected prince — but that through him, in some 
manner, by some service rendered or office filled, that 
great personage will manifest himself to Israel. Nc 
disappointment damps his zeal, or convinces him of the 
futility of expectations resting upon no other foundation 
than his own inferences, conjectures, or fanciful inter¬ 
pretation of the dark sayings of the prophets. When 
in the East, it was through Palmyra, that his country 
was to receive her king ; through her victories, that 
redemption was to be wrought out for Israel. Being 
compelled to let go that dear and cherished hope, he 
now fixes it upon this little “ Joseph,” and it will not 
be strange if this child of poverty and want should in 
the end inherit all his vast possessions, by which, he 
will please himself with thinking, he can force his way 
to the throne of Judea. Portia derives great pleasure 
from his conversation, and frequently detains him long 
for that purpose ; and of her Isaac is never weary utter¬ 
ing the most extravagant praise. I sometimes wonder 
that I never knew him before the Mediterranean voyage, 
seeing he was so well known to Portia ; but then again 
do not wonder, when I remember by what swarms of 
mendicants, strangers, and impostors of every sort.. 
Portia was ever suri'ounded, from whom I turned in 


AU R E LI A N . 


231 


stinctively away ; especially did I ever avoid all inter¬ 
course with Christians and Jews. I held them, of all, 
lowest and basest. * 

We are just returned from Tibur, where we have en¬ 
joyed many pleasant hours with Zenobia. Livia was 
there also. The day was in its warmth absolutely 
Syrian, and while losing ourselves in the mazes of the 
Queen’s extensive gardens, we almost fancied ourselves 
in Palmyra. Nicomachus being of the company, as he 
ever is, and Vabalathus, we needed hut you, Calpurnius, 
and Gracchus, to complete the illusion. 

The Queen devotes herself to letters. She is rarely 
drawn from her favorite studies, but by the arrival of 
friends from Rome. Happy for her is it that, carried 
back to other ages by the truths of history, or transport¬ 
ed to other worlds by the fictions of poetry, the present 
and the recent can be in a manner forgotten ; or, at 
least, that, in these intervals of repose, the soul can 
gather strength for the thoughts and recollections which 
will intrude, and which still sometimes overmaster her. 
Her correspondence with you is another chief solace. 
She will not doubt that by and by a greater pleasure 
awaits her, and that instead of your letters she shall 
receive and enjoy yourself. Farewell. 


232 


A U R E L I A N . 


LETTER VII. 

FROM PISO TO FAUSTA. 

The body of the Christians, as you may well suppose, 
Fausta, is in a state of much agitation. Though they 
:annot discern plainly the form of the danger that im¬ 
pends, yet they discern it ; and the very obscurity in 
which it is involved adds to their fears. It is several 
days since I last wrote, yet not a word has come from 
the palace. Aurelian is seen as usual in all public 
places ; at the capilol, taking charge of the erection and 
completion of various public edifices ; or, if at the palace, 
he rides as hard as ever, and as much, upon his Hippo¬ 
drome ; or, if at the Pretorian camp, he is exact and 
severe as ever in maintaining the discipline of the Le¬ 
gions. He has issued no public order of any kind that 
bears upon us. Yet not only the Christians, but the whole 
city, stand as if in expectation of measures of no little 
severity, going at least to the abridgement of many of our 
liberties, and to the deprivation of many of our privi¬ 
leges. This is grounded chiefly, doubtless, upon the re¬ 
ported imprisonment of Aurelia ; for, though some have 
little hesitation in declaring their belief, that she has 
been made way with, others believe it not at all ; and 
none can assign a reason for receiving one story rather 
than another. How Isaac came to be possessed of his 
information I do not know, but it bore all th) marks of 
truth. He would inform me neither how he came by 


A a R E L I A N . 


233 


►t, nor would he allow it to be communicated. But it 
would never be surprising to discover, that of my most 
private affairs he has a better knowledge than myself. 

Do not, from what I have said, conceive of the Chris¬ 
tians as giving any signs of unmanly fear. They per¬ 
ceive that danger threatens, but they change not their 
manner of life, not turn from the daily path of their 
pursuits. Believing in a providence, they put their 
trust in it. Their faith stands them in stead as a suffi¬ 
cient support and refuge. They cannot pretend, any 
more than Isaac, to see through the plans and purposes 
of Heaven. They pretend not to know, nor to be able 
to explain to another, why, if what they receive is the 
truth, and they are true believers in a true religion, they 
should be exposed to such sufferings for its sake ; and 
that which is false, and injurious as false, should tri¬ 
umph. It is enough for them, they say, to be fully 
persuaded ; to know, and possess, the truth. They can 
never relinquish it ; they will rather die. But, whether 
Christianity die with them or not, they cannot tell—that 
they leave to God. They do not believe that it will — 
prophecy, and the present condition of the world, not¬ 
withstanding a present overhanging cloud, give them 
confidence in the ultimate extension and power of their 
faith. At any rate it shall receive no injury at their 
hands. They have professed it during twenty years of 
prosperity, and have boasted of it before the world—they 
shall profess it with the same boldness, and the same 
grateful attachment, now that adversity approaches. They 
are fixed—calm—unmoved. Except for a deeper tone of 
earnestness and feeling when you converse with then. 

20 ^^ 


VOL. I. 


234 


A U R E L I A N . 


and a cast of sadness upon the countenance, you wculd 
discern no alteration in their conduct or manner. 

I might rather say that, in a very large proportion, 
there are observable the signs of uncommon and almost 
unnatural exhilaration. They even greet the coming of 
trouble as that which shall put their faith to the test, 
shall give a new testimony of the readiness of Chris¬ 
tians to suffer, and, like the former persecution, give it a 
new impulse forwards. They seek occasions of contro¬ 
versy and conversation with the Pagans at public places, 
at their labor, and in the streets. The preachers assume 
a bolder, louder tone, and declaim with ten times more 
vehemence than ever against the enormities and abomi¬ 
nations of the popular religions. Often at the market¬ 
places, and at the corners of the streets, are those to be 
seen, not authorized preachers perhaps, but believers and 
overflowing with zeal, who, at the risk of whatever pop¬ 
ular fury and violence, hold forth the truth in Christ, and 
denounce the reigning idolatries and superstitions. 

At the head of these is Macer ; at their head, both as 
ftespects the natural vigor of his understanding, and the 
perfect honesty and integrity of his mind, and his 
dauntless courage. Every day, and all the day, is he 
to be found in the streets of Rome, sometimes in one 
quarter, sometimes in another, gathering an audience of 
the passengers or idlers, as it may be, and sounding in 
their ears the truths of the new religion. That he, and 
others of the same character, deserve in all they do tht 
approbation of the Christian body, or receive it, is more 
than can be said. They are often, by their violences in 
the midst of their harangues, by harrh and uncharitable 


A U R E L I A IN . 


235 


denunciations, by false and exaggerated statements, the 
causes of tumult and disoraer, and contribute greatly to 
increase the general exasperation against us. With 
th ern it seems to be a maxim, that all means are lawful 
in a good cause. Nay, they seem rather to prefer the 
ruder and rougher forms of attack. They seem pos¬ 
sessed of the idea that the world is to be converted in a 
day, and that if men will not at once relinquish the preju¬ 
dices or the faith of years, they are fit but for cursings 
and burnings. In setting forth the mildest doctrine the 
world ever knew, delivered to mankind by the gentlest, 
the most patient and compassionate being it ever saw 
they assume a manner and use a language so entirely 
at variance with their theme, that it is no wonder if pre¬ 
judices are strengthened oftener than they are set loose, 
incredulity made more incredulous, and the hardened 
yet harder of heart. They who hear notice the discre¬ 
pancy, and fail not to make the use of it they may. 
When will men learn that the mind is a fortress that can 
never be taken by storm ? You may indeed enter it 
rudely and by violence, and the signs of submission shall 
be made: but all the elements of opposition are still 
there. Reason has not been convinced ; errors and 
misconceptions have not been removed, by a wise and 
logical and humane dealing, and supplanted by truths 
well proved, and shown to be truths ; — and the victory 
is one in appearance only. And, what is more, violence, 
on the part of the reformer and assailant, begets violence 
on the other side. The whole inward man, with all his 
feelings, prejudices, reason, is instantly put into a posture 
of defence ; not only of defence, for that were right, but 
of angry defence, which is wrong. Passion is up 


236 


A U R E L I A N . 


which might otlierwise have slept ; and it is passion, 
never reason, which truth has to fear. The intellect in 
its pure form, the advocate of truth would always prefer 
to meet, for he can never feel sure of a single step made 
till this has been gained. But intellect, inflamed by 
passion, he may well dread, as what there is but small 
hope even of approaching, much less of convincing. 

Often has Probus remonstrated with this order of men 
but in vain. They heed him not, but in return charge 
him with coldness and indifference, worldlmess, and all 
other associated faults. Especially has he labored to 
preserve Macer from the extremes to which he has run ; 
for he has seen in him an able advocate of Christian 
truth, could he but be moderated and restrained. But 
Macer, though he has conceived the strongest affection 
for Probus, will not allow himself in this matter to be 
influenced by him. He holds himself answerable to 
conscience and God alone for the course he pursues. As 
for the consequences that may ensue, either to himself 
or his family, his mind cannot entertain them. It is for 
Christ he lives, and for Christ he is ready to die. 

I had long wished to meet him and witness his man¬ 
ner both of acting and of preaching, and yesterday I was 
fortunate enough to encounter him. I shall give you, 
as exactly as I can, what took place ; it will show you 
bettei than many letters could do what, in one direction, 
are our present position and prospects. 

I was in the act of crossing the great avenue, which, 
on the south, leads to the Forum, when I was arrested 
by a disorderly crowd, such as we often see gathered 
suddenly in the street of a city about a thief who ha? 
been caught, or a person who has been trodden dowp 


A U S. £ L I A • 


237 


on me pavement. It moved quickly in the direction of 
the tribunal of Varus, and, what was my surprise, to be¬ 
hold Macer, in the midst, with head aloft, and inflamed 
countenance, holding in his grasp, and dragging onwards, 
one, who would willingly have escaped. The crowd 
seemed disposed, as I judged by the vituperations that 
were directed against Macer, to interfere, but were appa¬ 
rently deterred by both the gigantic form of Macer and 
their vicinity to the tribunal, whither he was going. 
Waiting till they were at some distance in advance of 
me, I then followed, determined to judge for myself of 
this singular man. I was with them in the common hall 
before the prefect had taken his seat. When seated at 
his tribunal, he inquired the cause of the tumult, and 
who it was that wished to appeal to him. 

‘ I am the person,’ said Macer ; ‘ and I come to drag 
io justice this miscreant —’ 

‘ And who may you be ?’ 

‘ I should think Varus might recognize Macer.’ 

‘ It is so long since I met thee last at the Emperor’s 
cable, that thy features have escaped me.’ 

At which, as was their duty, the attendant rabble 
laughed. 

‘ Is there any one present,’ continued the prefect, ‘ who 
knows this man ?’ 

‘ Varus need apply to no other than myself,’ said Ma¬ 
cer. ‘ I am Macer, the son of that Macer who was 
neighbor of the gladiator Pollex,—’ 

‘ Hold, I say,’ interrupted the prefect ; ‘ a man wit¬ 
nesses not here of himself. Can any one here say that 
this man is not crazy or drunk ?’ 

‘Varus! prefect Varus—’ cried Macer, his eyes 


238 


A U R E L I A N . 


fifishing lightning, and his voice not less thar, thunder ; 
out he was again interrupted. 

‘ Peace, slave ! or rods shall teach thee where thou 
art.’ And at the same moment, at a sign from Varu^, 
he was laid hold of with violence by officials of the 
place armed with spears and rods, and held. 

‘ What I wish to know then,’ said Varus, turning to 
the crowd, ‘ is, whether this is not the street brawler, 
one of the impious Gallileans, a man who should long 
ago have been set in the stocks to find leisure for better 
thoughts ? ’ 

Several testified, as was desired, that this was he. 

‘ This is all I wish to know,’ said the prefect. ‘ The 
man is either without wits, or they are disordered, or 
else the pestilent faith he teaches has made the nuisance 
of him he is, as it does of all who meddle with it. It 
is scarcely right that he should be abroad. Yet has he 
committed no offence that condemns him either to 
scourging or the prison. Hearken therefore, fellow ! I 
now dismiss thee without the scourging thou well de- 
serve«t ; but, if thou keep on thy wild and lawless way, 
racks and dungeons shall teach thee what there is in 
Roman justice. Away with him ! ’ 

‘ Romans ! Roman citizens ! ’ cried Macer ; ‘ are 

these your laws and this your judge ? — ’ 

‘ Away with him, I say! ’ cried the prefect ; and the 
officers of the palace hurried him out of the hall. 

As he went, a voice from the crowd shouted, 

‘ Roman citizens, Macer, are long since dead. ’T ia 
a vain appeal.’ 

‘ I believe you,’ replied Macer ; ‘tyrant and slave stand 
now for all who once bore the proud name of Roman 


A U R E L I A N. 


23y 


This violence and injustice on the part of Varus must 
be traced — for though capricious, and imperious, this is 
not his character — to the language of Macer in the 
shop of Publius, and to his apprehension lest the same 
references to his origin, which he would willingly have 
forgotten, should be made, and perhaps more offensively 
still, in the presence of the people. Probus, on the for¬ 
mer occasion, lamented deeply that Macer should have 
been tempted to rehearse in the way he did some of the 
circumstances of the prefect’s history, as its only end 
could be to needlessly irritate the man of power, and 
raise up a bitterer enemy than we might otherwise have 
found in him. 

Upon leaving the tribunal, I was curious to watch still 
further the movements of the Christian. The crow'd 
ubout him increased rather than diminished, as he left 
the building and passed into the street. At but a little 
distance from the hall of the prefect, stands the Temple 
of Peace, with its broad and lofty flights of steps. 
When Macer had reached it he paused, and looked 
round upon the motley crowd that had gathered about him. 

‘ Go up ! go up ! ’ cried several voices. ‘ We will 
hear thee.’ 

‘ There is no prefect here,’ cried another 

Macer needed no urging , but quickly strode up the 
steps, till he stood between the central columns of the 
temple and his audience had disposed themselves be¬ 
low him in every direction, when he turned and gazed 
upon the assembled people, who had now—by the addi¬ 
tion of such as passed along, and who had no more ur¬ 
gent business than to attend to that of any others whom 
they might chance to meet,—grown to a multitude. Af 


240 


A U R E L I A N . 


ler looking upon them for a space, as if studying theu 
characters, and how he could best adapt his discourse to 
their occasions, he suddenly and abruptly broke out— 

‘ You have asked me to come up here ; and I am 
here ; glad for once to be in such a place by invitation. 
And now I am here, and am about to speak, you will 
expect me to say something of the Christians.’ 

‘ Yes yes.’ 

‘ But I shall not—not yet. Perhaps by and by. In 
the meantime mv theme shall be the prefect ! the prefect 
Varus ! ’ 

‘ A subject full of matter,’ cried one near Macer. 

‘ Better send for him,’ said another. ‘ ’Twere a pity 
he lost it.’ 

‘ Yes,’ continued Macer, ‘ it is a subject full of matter, 
and I wish myself he were here to see himself in the 
mirror I would hold before him ; he could not but grow 
pale with affright. You have just had a sample of Ro¬ 
man justice ! How do you like it, Romans ? I had 
gone there to seek justice ; not for a Christian, but 
against a Christian. A Christian master had abused 
his slave with cruelty, I standing by ; and when to my 
remonstrance — myself feeling the bitter stripes he laid 
on — he did but ply his thongs the more, I seized the 
hardened monster by the neck, and wrenching from his 
grasp the lash, I first plied it upon his own back, and 
then dragged him to the judgment-seat of Varus,—’ 

‘ 0 fool ! ’ 

‘ You say well — fool that I was, crying for justice ! 
How I was dealt with, some of you have seen. There, 
I say, was a sample of Roman justice for you ! So in 
these times does power sport itself with poverty. I* 


a U R E L I A N . 


241 


was not &o once ir Rome. Were Cincinnatas or Regu- 
las at the tribunal of Varus, they would fare like the 
soldier Macer And who, Romans, is this Varus ? and 
why is he her..' in the seal of authority ? At the tribu¬ 
nal, Varus d'.d not know me. But what if I were to tell 
^mu there was but a thin wall between the rooms where 
we were born, and that when we were boys we were 
ever at the same school ! — not such schools as you are 
thinking of, where the young go for letters and for 
Greek, but the school where many of you have been 
and are now at, I dare say, the school of Roman vice, 
which you may find always open all along the streets, 
but especially where I and Varus were, in one of the 
sinks near the Flavian. Pollex, the gladiator, was father 
:)f Varus ! — not worse, but just as bad, as savage, as 
beastly in his vices, as are all of that butcher tribe. My 
father — Macer too — I will not say more of him than 
that he was keeper of the Vivaria of the amphitheatre, 
and passed his days in caging and uncaging the wild 
beasts of Asia and Africa ; in feeding them when there 
w^ere no games on foot, and starving them when there 
were. Varus, the prefect, Romans, and I, were at 
this school till I joined the legions under Valerian, and 
he, by a luckier fortune, as it would be deemed, found 
favor in the eyes of Gallienus, to whom, with his fair 
sister Fannia, he was sold by those demons Pollex and 
Caecina. I say nothing of how it fared with him in that 
tfeeping. Fannia has long since found the grave. Is 
Varus one who should sit at the head of Roms ? He is 
a man of blood, of crime, of vice, such as you would not 
bear to be told of! I say not this as if he were answer 
VOL. 1 . 21 


4 7 R E M A N . 


9 fo" his birth and early vice, but that, being; such, 
a iS not his place. He could not help it, nor I, that 
we were born and nurtured where we were ; that the 
sight of blood and the smell of it, either c.f men or 
oeasts, was never out of our eyes and nostrils, during 
all our boyhood and ymuth ; that to him, and me, the 
sweetest pleasure of our young life was, when the games 
came on, and the beasts were let loose upon one another, 
and, — 0 the hardening of that life! — when, specially^ 
there were prisoners or captives, on which to glut their 
raging hunger 1 Those were the days and hours marked 
whitest in our calendar. And, whitest of all, were the 
days of the Decian persecution, when the blood of thrice 
cursed Christians, as I was taught to name them, flowed 
like water. Every day then Varus and I had our sport; 
working up the beasts, by our torments, to an unnatural 
height of madness ere they were let loose, and then 
rushing to the gratings, as the doors were thrown open, 
to see the fury with which they would spring upon 
their defenceless victims too, and tear them piecemeal. 
The Romans required such servants — and we were 
they. They require them now, and you may find any 
number of such about the theatres. But if there must 
be such there, why should they be taken thence and put 
upon the judgment-seat ? save, for the reason, that they 
may have been thoroughly purged, as it were, by fire — 
which Varus has not been. What with him was neces¬ 
sary and forced when young, is now chosen and volun¬ 
tary. Vice is now his by election. Now, I ask, why 
has the life of Varus been such ? and vvhy, being such, 
iS he here ? Because you are so ! Yes, because you 
are all like him 1 It is you, Roman citizens, who rear 


A tl il B L I A N . 


243 


the theatres, the circuses, and tue iliousdAu 1; jj ol 
vice, which crowd the streets of Rome,— 

‘ No, no ! it is the emperors.’ 

‘ But who make the emperors ? You Romans o. .oese 
times, are a race of cowards and slaves, and it is mere- 
fore that tyrants rule over you. Were you freemen, 
with the souls of freemen in you, do you think you 
would bear as you do—and love and glory in the yoke— 
this rule of such creatures as Varus, and others whom 
it were not hard to name ? I know what you are — for 
I have been one of you. I have not been, nor am I 
now, hermit, as you may think, being a Christian. A 
Christian is a man of the world — a man of action and 
of suffering — not of rest and sleep. I have ever been 
abroad among men, both before I was a Christian and 
since ; and I know what you are. You are of the same 
stamp as Varus ! nay, start not, nor threaten with your 
eyes, — I fear you not. If you are not so, why, I say 
is Varus there ? You know that I speak the truth 
The people of Rome are corrupt as their rulers ! Ho 
should it be much otherwise ? You are fed by the la- 
gesses of the Emperor, you have your two loaves a day 
and your pork, and you need not and so do not work. 
Vou have no employment but idleness, and idleness is 
not so much a vice itself as the prolific mother of all 
vices. When I was one of you, it was so ; and so it is 
now. My father’s labor was nothing ; he was kept by 
the state. The Emperor was not more a man of pleas¬ 
ure than he, nor the princes, than I and Varus. Was 
that a school of virtue ? When I left the service of the 
amphitheatre I joined the Legions. In the army I had 
work, and I had fighting, but my passions, in the early 


2U 


A U R E L I A N . 


days of that service, raged like the sea ; and during al 
the reign of Valerian’s son there was no bridle upon 
them: — for I served under the general Carinus, and 
what Carinus was and is, most of you know. O the 
double horrors of those years ! I was older, and yet 
worse and worse. God ! I marvel that thou didst not 
interpose and strike me dead ! But thy mercy spared 
me, and now the lowest, lowest hell shall not be mine.’ 
Tears, forced by these recollections, flowed down his 
cheeks, and for a time he was speechless. 

‘ Such, Romans, was I once. What am I now ? 1 

am a changed man — through and through. There is 
not a thought of my mind, nor a fibre of rny body, what 
they were once. You may possibly think the change 
has been for the worse, seeing me thus thrust forth from 
the tribunal of the prefect with dishonor, when I was once 
a soldier and an officer under Aurelian. I would rather 
a thousand times be what I am, a soldier of Jesus Christ. 
And I would that, by anything I could do, you, any one 
of you, might be made to think so too ; I would that 
Varus might, for I bear him no ill will. 

‘ But what am I now ? I am so difierent a man from 
what I once was, that I can hardly believe myself to be 
the same. The life which I once led, I would not lead 
again— no — not one day nor hour of it, though you 
would depose Aurelian to day and crown me Caesar to¬ 
morrow. I would no more return to that life, than 1 
would consent to lose my nature and take a swine’s,' 
and find elysium where as a man I once did, in sinks 
and sties. I would not renounce for the vrealth of all 
the world, and its empire too, that belief in the faith o’ 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


245 


Christ, the heal of the Christians, which has wrought 
so within me. 

‘ And what has made me so — would make you so — 
if you would but hearken to it. And would it not be ? 
good thing if the flood of vice, which pours all through 
the streets of Rome, were stayed ? Would it not be a 
happy thing, if the misery which dwells beneath these 
vaulted roofs and these humbler ones equally, the mis¬ 
ery which drunkenness and lust, the lust of money, and 
the love of place, and every evil passion generates, were 
all wiped away, and we all lived together observant of 
the rights of one another, helping one another ; not op¬ 
pressing ; loving, not hating ; showing in our conduct 
as men, the virtues of little children ? Would it not 
be happier if all this vast population were bound together 
by some common ties of kindred ; if all held all as breth¬ 
ren ; if the poor man felt himself to be the same as Au- 
relian himself, because he is a man like him and weighs 
just as much as he in the scales of God, and that it is 
the vice in the one or the other, and that only that sinks 
him lower ? Would it not be better, if you all could see 
in tbe presiding power of the universe, one great and 
good Being, who needs not to be propitiated by costly 
sacrifices of oxen or bulls, nor by cruel ones of men,— 
but is always kindly disposed towards you, and desires 
nothing so much as to see you living virtuously, and is 
never grieved as he is to see you ruining your own 
peace,—not harming him—by your vices ? for you will 
bear witness with me that your vices are never a cause 
of happiness. Would it not be better if you could oe* 
hold such a God over you, in the place of those who ar€ 
21 VOL. 1 .* 


246 


A U R E L I A N . 


called gods, and whom you worship, as I did once, be¬ 
cause 1 feared to do otherwise, and yet sin on never the 
less : who are your patterns not so much in virtue as 
in all imaginab.e vice ? ’ 

‘ Away with the wicked ! ’—‘ Away with the fellow ! 
cried several voices ; but others predominated, saying, 
‘Let him alone !’ — ‘ He speaks well ! We will hear 
him !’ — ‘ We will defend him ! go on, go on ! ’ 

‘ I have little or nothing more to say,’ continued Ma- 
cer. ‘ I will only ask you whether you must not judge 
that to be a very powerful principle of some kind that 
drew me up out of that foul pit into which I was fallen, 
and made me what I am now ? Which of you now 
feels that he has motive strong enough to work out such 
a deliverance for him ? What help in this way do you 
receive from your priests, if perchance you ever apply 
to them ? What book of instructions concerning the 
will of the gods have you, to which you can go at any 
time and all times ? Only believe as I do, Romans, 
and you will hate sin as I do. You cannot help it. 
Believe in the God that I do, and in the revealer of his 
will, the teacher whom he sent into the world to save us 
from our heathen errors and vices, and you will then be 
more than the Romans you once were. You are now, 
and you know it, infinitely less. Then you will be 
what the old Romans were and more. You will be as 
brave as they, and more just. You will be as generous 
and more gentle. You will love your own country as 
well, but you will love others too. You will be more 
ready to offer up your lives for your country, for it will 
be better worth dying for ; every citizen will be a 
brother ; every ruler a brother ; it will be like dying fo? 


AU RE LIaN. 


247 


» - 1 lii'.le household. If you wouio see Rome 

flourii..\ ;5he must become more pure. She can stagger 
along not much longer under this mountain weight of 
iniquity that presses her into the dust. She needs a 
new Hercules to cleanse her foul chambers. Christ is 
he ; and if you will invite him, he will come and sweep 
away these abominations, so that imperial Rome shall 
smell fragrantly as a garden of spices.’ 

Loud exclamations of approval here interrupted Ma* 
cer. The great proportion of those who were present 
were now evidently with him, and interested in his 
communications. 

‘Tell us,’ cried one, as soon as the noise subsided, 
‘ how you became wl. at you are ? What is to be done ? 

‘ Yes,’ cried many voices, ‘ tell us.’ 

‘ I will tell you gladly,’ answered Macer. ‘ I first heard 
the word of truth from the lips of Probus, a preacher of 
the Christians, whom you too may hear whenever you 
will, by seeking him out on the days when the Chris¬ 
tians worship. Probus was in early life a priest of the 
temple of Jupiter, and if any man in Rome can place 
the two religions side by side, and make the differences 
plain, it is he. Go to him such of you as can, and you 
will never repent it. But if you would all learn the 
first step toward Christian truth, and all truth, it is this ; 
lay aside your prejudices, be willing to see, hear, and 
judge for yourselves. Take not rumor for truth. Do 
not believe without evidence both for and against. You 
would not, without evidence and reason, charge Aurelian 
with the death of Aurelia, though ten thousand tongues 
report it. Charge not the Christians with worse things 
then, merely because the wicked and ill-disposed ma- 


248 


A U R E L I A N . 


liciously invent them and spread them. If you would 
know the whole truth and doctrine of Christians ; if you 
would ascend to the fountain-head of all Christian 
wisdom, take to your homes our sacred books and read 
them. Some of you at least can obtain them. Let one 
purchase, and then twenty or fifty read. One thing be¬ 
fore I cease. Believe not the wicked aspersions of the 
prefect. He charges me as a brawler, a disturber of the 
peace and order of the city. Romans, believe me, I am 
a lover of peace, but I am a lover of freedom too. Be¬ 
cause I am a lover of peace, and would promote it, do I 
labor to teach the doctrines of Christ, which are doctrines 
of peace and love, both at home and abroad, in the city 
and throughout the world; and because I am the friend 
of freedom, do I open my mouth at all times and in every 
place, wherever I can find those who, like you, are 
ready to hear the words of salvation. When in Rome I 
can no longer speak — no longer speak for the cause of 
what I deem truth, then will I no longer be a Roman. 
Then will I that day renounce my name and my country. 
Thanks to Aurelian, he has never chained up the 
tongue. I have fought and bled under him, and never 
was there a braver man, or who honored courage more 
m others. I do not believe he will ever do so cowardly 
a thing as to restrain the freedom of men’s speech. Au¬ 
relian is some things, but he is not others. He is se¬ 
vere and cruel, but not mean. Cut Aurelian in two, 
and throw the worser half away, and t’ other is as royal 
a man as ever the world saw. 

‘ One thing more, good friends and citizens r If I am 
sometimes carried away by my passions to do that which 
seems a dicturbance of the common order, say that it is 


A U R E L I A N. 


249 


tne soldier Macer that does it, not his Christian zea.’ 
—his human passions, not his new-adopted faith. It is 
not at once and perfectly that a man passes from one 
life to another ; puts off one nature and takes another. 
Much that belonged to Macer of the amphitheatre, and 
Macer the soldier, cleaves to him now. But make not his 
religion amenable for that. You who would see the law 
of Christ written, not only on a book but in the character 
and life of a living man, go read the Christian Probus.’ 

As he said these words he began to descend the steps 
of the temple ; but many crowded round him, assailing 
him, some with reproaches, and others with inquiries 
put by those who seemed anxious to know the truth. 
The voices of his opponents were the most violent and 
prevailed, and made me apprehensive that they would 
proceed to greater length than speech. But Macer 
stood firm, nothing daunted by the uproar. One, who 
signalized himself by the loudness and fierceness of his 
cries, exclaimed, ‘ that he was nothing else than an 
atheist like all the rest of the Christians ; they have no 
gods ; they deny the gods of Rome, and they give us 
nothing in their stead.’ 

‘ We deny the gods of Rome, I know,’ replied Macer, 
‘ and who would not, who had come to years of discre¬ 
tion ? who had so much as left his nurse’s lap ? A 
fouler brotherhood than they the lords of Heaven, Rome 
does not contain. Am I to be called upon to ’.vorship a 
set of v/retches chargeable with all the crimes and vices 
to be found on earth ? It is this accursed idolatry, 0 
Romans, that has sunk you so low in sin ! They are 
your lewd, and drunken, and savage deities, who have 
taught you all vour refinement in wickedness ; and 


850 


A U R E L I A N . 


never, till you renounce them, never till you repent yot 
of your iniquities — never till you turn and worship the 
true God will you rise out of the black Tartarean 
slough in which you are lying. These two hundred 
years and more has God called to you by his Son, and you 
have turned away your ears ; you have hardened your 
hearts ; the prophet’s who have come to you in his name 
have you slain by the sword or hung upon the accursed 
tree. Awake out of your slumbers ! These are the last 
days. God will not forbear forever. The days of ven¬ 
geance will come ; they are now at hand : 1 can hear the 
rushing of that red right arm hot with wrath — ’ 

‘ Away with him ! away with him ! ’ broke from an 
hundred voices! — ‘Down with the blasphemer!’ — 

‘ Who is he to speak thus of the gods of Rome ? ’— ‘ Seize 
the impious Gallilean, and away with him to the pre¬ 
fect ! ’ — These, and a thousand exclamations of the same 
kind, and more savage, were heard on every side ; and^ 
at the same moment, their denial and counter-exclama¬ 
tions, from as many more. 

‘ He has spoken the truth ! — ‘ He is a brave fellow ! 
— ‘He shall not be touched except we fall first!’ — 
came from a resolute band who encompassed the preach¬ 
er, and seemed resolved to make good their words by 
defending him against whatever assault might be made. 
Macer, himself a host in such an affray, neither spoke 
nor moved, standing upright and still as a statue; but 
any one might see the soldier in his kindling eye, and 
that a slight cause would bring him upon the assailants 
with a fury that would deal out wounds and death. He 
nad told them that the old Legionary was not quite dead 
within him, and sometimes usurped the place of the 


A U R E L I A N . 


251 


Onisiian ; this ‘hey seemed to remember, end after 
showering upon him vituperation and abuse in every 
torm, one after another they withdrew and left him with 
those who had gathered immediately around him. 
These too soon took their leave of him, and Macer, un¬ 
impeded and alone, turned towards his home. 

When I related to Probus afterwards what I had 
heard and witnessed, he said that I was fortunate in hear¬ 
ing what was so much more sober and calm than that 
which usually fell from him ; that generally he devoted 
himself to an exposition of the absurdities of the heathen 
worship, and the abominations of the mysteries, and the 
vices of the priesthood; and he rarely ended without 
filling with rage a great proportion of those who heard 
him. Many a time had he been assaulted ; and hardly 
had escaped with his life. You will easily perceive, 
Fausta, how serious an injury is inflicted upon us by 
rash and violent declaimers like Macer. There are 
others like him; he is by no means alone, though he is 
far the most conspicuous. Together they help to kindle 
the flame of active hostility, and infuse fresh bitterness 
into the Pagan heart. Should the Emperor carry into ef¬ 
fect the purposes now ascribed to him, these men will 
be sure victims, and the first. 

Upon my return after hearing Macer, I found Livia 
seated with Julia, to w^hom she often comes thus, and 
then together — I often accompanying—we visit Ti- 
bur. She had but just arrived. It was easy to see that 
the light-heartedness, which so manifested itself always 
in the beaming countenance and the elastic step, was 
gone ; the usual signs of it at least were not visible. 


AURELIA ix. 


Her whole expression was serious and anxious ; anu 
upon her face were the traces of recent grief. For a 
long time, after the first salutations and inquiries were 
through, neither spoke. At length Livia said, 

‘ I am come now, Julia, to escape from what has be 
come of late little other than a prison. The Fabrician 
dungeons are not more gloomy than the gardens of Sal 
lust are now. No more gaiety ; no feasting by day and 
carousal by night; the gardens never illuminated; no 
dancinof nor music. It is a new life for me : and then 
the only creatures to be seen, that hideous Fronto and 
the smiling Varus ; men very well in their place, but 
no inmates of palaces.’ 

‘ Well’ said Julia there is the greater reason why 
we should see more of each other and of Zenobia. Au-- 
relian is the same ? ’ 

‘ The same ? There is the same form, and the same 
face, and the same voice ; but the form is motionless, 
save when at the Hippodrome, — the face black as Styx, 
and his voice rougher than the raven’s. That agreeable 
humor and sportiveness, which seemed native to him, 
though by reason of his thousand cares not often seen, is 
now wholly gone. He is observant as ever of all the 
forms of courtesy, and I am to him what I have ever 
been ; but a dark cloud has settled over him and all the 
house, and I would willingly escape if I could. And 
worse than all, is this of Aurelia ! Alas, poor girl ! ’ 

‘ And what, Livia, is the truth ?’ said Julia; ‘ the city 
is filled with rumors, but they are so at variance one 
with another, no one knows which to believe, or whether 
none.’ 

‘I hardly know myself,’ replied Livia. ‘ All I knov 


AURELl;» N . 


253 


with certainty is, that I have lost my only companion — 
or the only one I cared for — and that Aurelian mere!}/ 
says she has been sent to the prisons at the Fabrician 
bridge. I cannot tell you of our parting. Aurelia was 
sure something terrible was designed against her, from 
the sharpness and violence of her uncle’s language, anc 
she left me as if she were never to see me again. But 
I would believe no such thing, and so I told her, and 
tried to give to her some of the courage and cheerfulness 
which 1 pretended to have myself: but it was to no pur¬ 
pose. She departed weeping as if her heart were 
broken. I love her greatly, notwithstanding her usual 
air of melancholy and her preference of solitude, and I 
have found in her, as you know, my best friend and 
companion. Yet I confess there is that in her which I 
never understood, and do not now understand. I hope 
she will comply with the wishes of Aurelian, and that 
I shall soon see her again. The difficulty is all owing 
to this new religion. I wish, Julia, there were no such 
thing. It seems to me to do nothing but sow discord 
and violence.’ 

‘ That, dear Livia,’ said Julia, ‘ is not a very wise 
wish ; especially seeing you know, as you will yourself 
confess, so little about it.’ 

‘ But,’ quickly added Livia, ‘ was it not better as it 
was at Palmyra? who heard then of these bitter hostil¬ 
ities ? who were there troubled about their worship ? 
One hardly knew there was such a thing as a Christian. 
When Paul was at the palace, it was still all the same , 
only, if anything, a little more agreeable. But here, no 
one at the gardens speaks of Christians but with an as- 
VOL. 1 . 22 


25\ 


A U R E L I A N . 


sissin air that frightens one. There must surely \ 
more evil in them than I ever dreamed of.’ 

‘The evil, Livia,’ answered her sister, ‘ comes no» 
from the Christians nor Christianity, but from those vvhc 
oppose them. There were always Christians in Pal¬ 
myra, and, as you say, even in the palace, yet there was 
always peace and good-will too. If Christianity were 
in itself an element of discord and division, why were 
no such effects seen there ? The truth is, Livia, the di¬ 
vision and discord are created, not by the new religion, 
but by those who resist it, and will not suffer people to 
act and think as they please about it. Under Zenobia, 
all had liberty to believe as they would. And there was 
under her the reign of universal peace and good-will. 
Here, on the other hand, it has been the practice of the 
state to interfere, and say what the citizens shall believe 
and whom they shall worship, and what and whom they 
shall not. How should it be otherwise than that 
troubles should spring up, under legislation so absurd 
and so wicked? Would it not be a certain way to in¬ 
troduce confusion, if the state — or Aurelian — should 
prescribe our food and drink ? or our dress ? And if 
confusion did arise, and bitter opposition, you could not 
justly say it was owing to the existence of certain kinds 
of food, or of clothes which people fancied, but to their 
being interfered with. Let them alone, and they will 
please themselves and be at peace.’ 

‘ Yes,* said Livia, ‘ that may be. But the common peo¬ 
ple are in no way fit judges in such things, and it seems to 
me if either party must give way, it were better the people 
did. The government has the power and they will use it. 

‘ In so indifferent a matter as food or dress,’ rejoined 


A U R E L I A xN . 


25.5 


' ii a government were so foolish as to make 
prohibitory and whimsical laws, it were better to yield 
than contend. But in an affair so difierent from that as 
one’s religion, one could not act in the same way. I 
may dress in one kind of stuff as well as another ; it is 
quite a possible thing : but is it not plainly impossible, if 
I think one kind of stuff is of an exquisite fineness and 
color, for me to believe and say at the same time, that its 
texture is coarse and its hue dull ? The mind cannot be¬ 
lieve according to any other laws than those of its own con¬ 
stitution. Is it not then the height of wickedness to set 
out to make people believe and act one way in religion ? 
The history of the world has shown that, in spite of men’s 
wickedness, there is nothing on earth they value as they 
do their religion. They will die rather than change or 
renounce it. Men are the same now. To require that 
any portion of the people shall renounce their religion is 
to require them to part with that which they value most 
—more than life itself—and is it not in effect pronounc¬ 
ing against them a sentence of destruction ? Some in¬ 
deed will relinquish it rather than die; and some will 
play the hypocrite for a season, intending to return to a 
profession of it in more peaceful times : but mos', and 
the best, will die before they will disown their faith.’ 

‘ Then if that is so,’ said Livia, ‘ and I confess what 
you say cannot be denied, I would that Aurelian could 
be prevailed upon to recede from a position which he ap¬ 
pears to be taking. His whole nature now seems to 
have been set on fire by this priest Pronto. Superstition 
has wholly seized and possessed him. His belief is that 
Home can never be secure and great till tiie enemies o. 
the efods, as well as of the state, shall perish ; and push 


m 


A U R E L I A N . 


:i 9X1 by Pronto, so far as can be gatheied from iheii 
iis>cours 2 , is now bent on their injury or destruction. 1 
he could be changed back again to what he was 
oefore this notion seized him. Piso, have you seen 
him ? Have you of late conversed with him ? ’ 

‘ Only, Livia, briefly ; and on this topic only at intervals 
of other talk ; for he avoids it, at least with me. But 
from what we all know of Aurelian, it is not one’s opin¬ 
ion nor another’s that can alter his will when once bent 
one way.’ 

‘ How little did I once deem,’ said Livia, ‘ when I used 
to wish so for greatness and empire, that they could be 
so darkened over. I thought that to be great was neces¬ 
sarily to be happy. But I was but a child then. 

‘ How long since was that ?’ asked Julia, smiling. 

‘ Ah ! you would say I am little better than that now.’ 

‘ You are young yet, Livia, for much wisdom to have 
come ; and you must not wonder if it come slowly, for 
you are unfortunately placed to gain it. An idol on its 
pedestal can rarely have but two thoughts — that it is 
an idol, and that it is to be worshipped. The entrance 
of all other wisdom is quite shut out.’ 

‘ How pleasant a thing it is, Piso, to have an elder 
sister as wise as Julia ! But come, will you to Tibur ? 
I must have Faustula, now I have lost Aurelia.’ 

‘ 0 no, Livia,’ said Julia ; ‘ take her not away from 
Zenobia. She can ill spare her. 

‘ But there is Vabalathus.’ 

‘ Y es, but he is now little there. He is moreover 
preparing for his voyage. Faustula is her all.’ 

‘Ah, then it cannot be ! Yes, it were very wrong. 
But, this being so, I see not then but I must go to her 


AU RE LIAN. 


2 


f? live with you. Only think of one’s tiying t 
B'scaps fT3m the crown of Rome ? I can hardly believe 1 
am Livia ; once never to be satisfied with power and 
greatness — now tired of them ! No, not that exactly—' 

‘ You are tired, only, Livia, of some little attendant 
troubles ; you like not that overhanging cloud you just 
spoke of; but for the empire itself, you love that none 
the less. To believe that, it is enough to see you.’ 

‘ I suppose you are right. Julia is always right, Piso.’ 

So our talk ran on ; sometimes into graver and then 
into lighter themes — often stopping and lingering long 
over you, and Calpurnius, and Gracchus. You wished 
to know more of Livia and her thoughts, and I have given 
her to you in just the mood in which she happened to be. 

The wife of Macer has just been here, seeking from 
Julia both assistance and comfort. She implores us to 
io what we may to calm and sober her husband. 

‘ As the prospect of danger increases,’ she said to 
f^a, ‘ he grows but the more impetuous and ungovern- 
tHe* He is abroad all the day and every day, preach- 
‘:if all over Rome, and brings home nothing for the 
rapport of the family ; and if it were not for the Em¬ 
peror’s bounty, we should starve.’ 

‘ And does that support you ?’ 

‘ 0 no, lady ! it hardly gives us food enough to subsist 
upon. Then we have besides to pay for our lodging 
and our clothes. But I should mind not at all our la¬ 
bor nor our poverty, did I not hear from so many that 
my husband is so wild and violent in his preaching, anc 
when he disputes with the gentiles, as he will cal) them 

22 VOL 1.* 


258 


A U R E L I A N . 


I am sure it is a good cause to suffer in, if one must 
suffer ; but if our dear Macer would only work half the 
time, there would be no occasion to suffer, which we 
should now were it not for Demetrius the jeweler—who 
lives hard by, and who I am sure has been very kind to 
us — and our good JElia.’ 

‘You do not then,’ I asked, ‘ blame your religion nor 
weary of it ? ’ 

‘ 0, sir, surely not. It is our greatest comfort. We 
all look out with expectation of our greatest pleasure, 
when Macer returns home, after his day’s labors, — and 
labors they surely are, and will destroy him, unless he 
is persuaded to leave them off. For when he is at 
home the children all come round him, and he teaches 
them in his way what religion is. Sometimes it is a 
long story he gives them of his life, when he was a little 
boy and knew nothing about Christ, and what wicked 
things he did, and sometimes about his serving as a sol¬ 
dier under the Emperor. But he never ends without 
showing them what Christ’s religion tells them to think 
)f such ways of life. And then, sir, before we go to 
Ded he reads to us from the gospels — which he bought 
when he was in the army, and was richer than he is 
now — and prays for us all, for the city, and the Empe¬ 
ror, and the gentiles. So that we want almost nothing, 
as I may say, to make us quite contented and happy.’ 

‘ Have you ever been disturbed in your dwelling on 
Macer’s account?’ 

‘ 0 yes, sir, and we are always fearing it. This is 
our great trouble. Once the house was attacked by the 
people of the street, and almost torn dowri — and we 
escaped, I and the children, through a back way into the 


AU R E L J A N. 


259 


ahop of the good Demetrius. There we were safe ; and 
while we were gone our little cabin was entered, and 
everything in it broken in pieces. Macer was not at 
home, or I think he would have been killed. 

‘ Did you apply to the prefect ? ’ 

‘ Nc, sir, I do not believe there would be much use in 
that: they say he hates the Christians so.’ 

‘ But he is bound to preserve order in the city.’ 

‘ Yes, sir; but for a great man like him it’s easy to 
see only one way, and to move so slowly that it does no 
good. That is what our people say of him. When 
the Christians are in trouble he never comes, if he 
comes at all, till it is too late to do them any service. 
The best way for us is, I think, to live quietly, and not 
needlessly provoke the gentiles, nor believe that we can 
make Christians of them all in a day. That is my hus¬ 
band’s dream. He thinks that he must deliver his mes¬ 
sage to people, whether they will or not, and it almost 
seems as if the more hostile they were, the more he made 
it his duty to preach to them, which certainly was not the 
way in which Christ did, as he reads his history to us. It 
was just the other way. It almost makes me believe that 
some demon has entered into him, he is so different from 
what he was, and abroad from what he is at home. Do 
you think that likely, sir ? 1 have been at times inclined 

to apply to Felix to see jf lie ould not exorcise him.’ 

‘ No, 1 do not think teiv'diuy ; but many may. I 
believe he errs in his m in the way in which to do 
good ; but under some ircumstances it is so hard to 
tell which the best way 's, that we must judge charita¬ 
bly of one another. Some would say that Macer is 
right; others that the course of Probus is wisest; and 


260 


A U R E L I A N . 


Others that of Felix. We must do as we think right 
and leave the issue to God.’ 

‘ But you will come and see us ? We dwell near 
the ruins, and behind the shop of Demetrius. Every 
body knows Demetrius.’ 

I assured her I would go 

I almost wish, Fausta, that Julia was with you. All 
classes seem alike exposed to danger. But I suppose it 
would be in vain to propose such a step to her, espe¬ 
cially after what she said to Isaac. You now, after 
your storm, live at length in calm : not exactly in sun¬ 
shine; for you would say the sun never can seem to 
shine that falls upon the ruins of Palmyra. But calm 
and peace you certainly have, and they are much. I 
wish Julia could enjoy them with you. For here, every 
hour, so it now seems to me, the prospect darkens, and 
it will be enough for one of us to remain to encounter 
the evil, whatever it may be, and defend the faith we 
have espoused. This is an office more appropriate to 
man than to woman ; though emergences may arise, as 
they have, when woman herself must forget her tender¬ 
ness and put on soldiers’ panoply; and when it has 
come, never has she been found wanting. Her prompt¬ 
ness to believe that which is good and pure, has been 
equalled by her fortitude and patience in suffering for it. 

You will soon see Vabalathus. He will visit you 
before he enters upon his great office. By him I shall 
wr’te to you soon again. Farewell 


t 


4 * 




iVUKELIxVN 

OB, 

Itome ill tlje Cljirl) C^ntiirii. 

EH LETTERS OP LUCIUS M. PISO, FROM ROME, VO FAUSTA, 
THE DAUGHTER OF GRACCHUS, AT PALMYRA. 

BY 

WILLIAM WARE, 

4VTHOB OF ^‘ZKNOBIA," “JULIAN," BTCI. 

VIFTU EDITION. 

TWO VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE, 

V^OL. II. 



NEW YORK 

THOMAS R. KNOX & CO. 

SUCCESSORS TO JAMES MILLER 

813 Broadway 


Entered, according to the Act of Congress, In the year 1838, 
ByCiiARLES S. Francis, 
in the Clerk’s office of the Southern District of New York. 


Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1866, 
By Mary Ware, 

In the Clerk’s office of the Son.inern District of New York 


TROW’3 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, 
NEW YORK. 



A U K E L I A N 


LETTER VIII. 

FRCM PISO TO FAUSTA. 

Marcus and Lucilia are inconsolable. Their grief, I 
fear, will be lasting as it is violent. They have no re¬ 
source but to plunge into affairs and drive away memory 
by some active and engrossing occupation. Yet they 
cannot always live abroad ; they must at times return 
to themselves and join the company of their own 
thoughts. And then, memory is not to be put off; at 
such moments this faculty seems to constitute the mind 
more than any other. It becomes the mind itself. The 
past rises up in spite of ourselves, and overshadows the 
present. Whether its scenes have been prosperous or 
afflictive, but especially if they have been shameful, do 
they present themselves with all the vividness of the ob¬ 
jects before us and the passing hour, and infinite¬ 
ly increase our pains. We in vain attempt to es¬ 
cape. We are prisoners in the hands of a giant. To 
forfifet is not in our power. The will is impotent. The 
1 * VOL. 2 . 



6 


A U K E L I A N . 


effort to forget is often but an effort to remember. Fast 
ns we fly, so fast the enemy of our peace pursues. Mem¬ 
ory is a companion who never leaves us—or never leaves 
us long. Tt is the true Nemesis. Tartarean regions 
have no worse woes, nor the Hell of Christians, than 
memory inflicts upon those who have done evil. My 
friends struggle in vain. They have not done evil in¬ 
deed, but they have suffered it. The sorest calamity 
that afflicts mortals has overtaken them ; their choicest 
jewel has been torn from them ; and they can no more 
drown the memory of their loss than they can take that 
faculty itself and tear it from their souls. Comfort can¬ 
not come from that quarter. It can come only from 
being re-possessed of that which has been lost hereafter, 
and from enjoying the hope of that felicity now. See 
how Marcus writes. After much else, he says, 

‘ I miss you, Piso, and the conversations which we 
had together. I know not how it is, but your presence 
acted as a restraint upon my hot and impatient temper. 
Since your departure I have been little less than mad, 
and so far from being of service to Lucilia, she has been 
compelled to moderate her own grief in the hope to as¬ 
suage mine. I have done nothing but rave, and curse 
my evil fortune. And can anything else be looked for? 
How should a man be otherwise than exasperated when 
the very thing he loves best in the wide universe is, 
without a moment’s warning, snatched away from him ? 
A man falls into a passion if his seal is stolen, or his 
rings, or his jewels, if his dwelling burns down, or his 
slaves run away or die by some pestilence. And why 
should he not much more when the providence of the 
gods, or the same power whatever it may be that gave 


A U R E L : A N . 


/ 

ns a child, tears it from us again ; and just then when 
we have so grown into it that it is like hewing us in 
two ? I can believe in nothing but capricious chance. 
We live by chance, and so we die. Such events are 
otherwise inexplicable. For what reason can by the 
most ingenious be assigned for giving life for a few years 
to a being like Gall us, and who then, before he is more 
than just past the threshold of life, before a single power 
of his nature has put itself forth, but at the moment 
when he is bound to his parents by ties of love which 
never afterwards would be stronger — is struck dead ? 
We can give no account of it. It is irreconcilable with 
the hypothesis of an intelligent and good Providence 
It has all the features of chance upon it. A god coul^ 
not have done it unless he had been the god of Tartarus 
Dark Pluto might, or the avenging Furies, were they su 
preme. But away with all such dreams ! The slaves 
who were his proper attendants, have been scourged and 
crucified. That at first gave me some relief ; but al¬ 
ready I repent it. So it is with me ; I rush suddenly 
upon what at the moment I think right,and then as sud¬ 
denly think and feel that I have done wrong, and so 
suffer. I see and experience nothing but suffering, 
whichever way I turn. Truly we are riddles. Piso, you 
cannot conceive of my loss. It was our only child — 
and the only one we shall ever know. I wish that I 
believed in the gods that I might curse them.’ 

And much more in the same frarjtic way. Time wil/ 
blunt his grief; but it will bring him I fear no other or 
better comfort. He hopes for oblivion of his loss ; but 
that can never be. He may cease to grieve as he grieves 
now ; but he can never cease to remember. I trust to 


8 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


see him again ere long, and turn his thoughts into a 
better channel. > 

I did not forget to keep my promise to the wife of 
Macer. In truth I had long regarded it as essential to 
our safety almost, certainly to our success, that this man, 
and others of the same character, should be restrained in 
some way in their course of mistaken zeal ; and had 
long intended to use what influence to that end I might 
possess. Probus had promised to accompany me, and 
do what in him lay, to rescue religion from this peril at 
the hands of one of her best friends. He joined me to¬ 
ward the evening of the same day on which I had seen the 
wife of Macer, and we took our way toward his dwelling 

It was already past the hour of twilight when we 
reached the part of the city where Macer dwells, and 
entered the ruins among which his cabin stands. These 
ruins are those of extensive and magnificent baths de¬ 
stroyed a long time ago, and to this day remaining as 
the flames left them. At the rear of them, far from the 
street and concealed from it by arches and columns and 
fragments of wall, we were directed by the rays of a 
lamp streaming from a window, to the place we sought.- 
We wound our way among these fallen or still standing 
masses of stone, which frequently hid from us the object 
of our search, till, as we found ourselves near the spot, 
we were arrested by the sound of a single voice uttering 
itself with vehemence and yet solemnity. We paused, 
but could not distinguish the words used ; but the same 
conviction possessed us as to its cause. It was Macer at 
prayer. We moved nearer, so that, without disturbing 
the family, we might still make ourselves of the number 


4 D R E LI A N . 


9 


of hearers. His voice, loud and shrill, echoed among 
the ruins and conveyed to us, though at some dis¬ 
tance, every word that he uttered. But for the noise 
of carriages and passengers it would have penetrated 
even to the streets. The words we caught were such 
as these — 

— ‘ If they hear thee not, O Lord, nor reverence thy 
messengers, but deny thee and turn upon those whom 
thou sendest the lip of scorn and the eye of pride, and 
will none of their teachings, and so do despite to the 
spirit of thy grace, and crucify the Lord afresh, then do 
thou, O Lord, come upon them as once upon the cities 
of the plain in the times of thine anger. Let fire from 
Heaven consume them. Let the earth yawn and swal¬ 
low them up. Tear up the foundations of this modern 
Babylon ; level to the earth her proud walls ; and let 
her stand for a reproach, and a hissing, and a scorn, 
through all generations ; so that men shall say as they 
pass by, lo ! the fate of them that held to their idols 
rather than serve the living God ; their proud palaces 
are now dwellings of dragons, and over her ruins the 
trees of the forest are now spreading their branches. 
But yet, 0 Lord, may this never be ; but may a way of 
escape be made for them through thy mercy. And to this 
end may we thy servants, to whom thou hast given the 
sword of the spirit, gird it upon our sides, lift up our 
voices and spare not, day and night, morning and even¬ 
ing, in the public place, and at the corners of the street? ; 
in ab places, and in every presence, proclaiming the 
good news of salvation. Let not cowardice seal our 
lips. Whether before gentile or jew, emperor or slave, 
may we speak as becomes the Lord’s anointed. Warm 


10 


A U R E L I A N . 


.he hearts of the cold and dead ; put fire into them ; 
fire from thine own altar. The world, 0 Lord, and its 
honors and vanities, seduce thine own servants from 
thee. They are afraid, they are cold, they are dead 
and the enemy lifts himself up and triumphs. For this 
we would mourn and lament. Give us, O Lord, the 
courage and the zeal of thine early apostles and teachers 
so that no fear of tortures and death may make us 
traitors to Christ and thee.’ 

It was a long time that he went on in this strain, in¬ 
veighing, with heat and violence, against all who with¬ 
drew their hand from the work, or abated their zeal. 
When he had ceased, and we stood waiting to judge 
whether the service were wholly ended, the voices of 
the whole fiimily apparently, were joined together in a 
hymn of praise — Macer’s now more gentle and sub¬ 
dued, as if to hear himself the tones of the children and 
of his wife who accompanied him. The burden of the 
hymn was also a prayer for a spirit of fidelity and a 
temper of patience, in the cause of truth and Christ. It 
was worship in the highest sense, and none within the 
dwelling could have joined more heartily than we did 
who stood without. 

When it was ended, and with it evidently the evening 
service, we approached, and knocked for admittance. 
Macer appeared holding a light above his head, and per¬ 
ceiving who his guests were, gave us cordial welcome, 
at the same time showing ns into his small apartment 
and placing stools for our accommodation. The room 
\n which we were was small and vaulted, and built ot 
stone in the most solid manner. I saw at once that it 
vas one of the smaller rooms of the ancient bath, which 


A U R E L I A N . 


11 


had escaped entire destruction and now served as a com¬ 
fortable habitation. A door on the inner side appeared 
to connect it with a number of similar apartments. A 
table in the centre and a few stools, a shelf on which 
were arranged the few articles which they possessed 
both for cooking and eating their food, constituted the 
furniture of the room. In the room next beyond I could 
see pallets of straw laid upon the floor, which served for 
beds. Macer, his wife, and six children, composed the 
family then present; the two elder sons being yet ab¬ 
sent at their wmrk, in the shop of Demetrius. The 
mother held at her breast an infant of a year or more ; 
one of three years sprang again upon his father’s lap, as 
he resumed his seat after our entrance, whence he had 
apparently been just dislodged ; the rest, sitting in obscure 
parts of the room, were at first scarcely visible. The wife 
of Macer expressed heartily her pleasure at seeing us, 
and said even more by her flushed and animated coun¬ 
tenance than by her words. The severe countenance of 
Macer himself relaxed and gave signs of satisfaction. 

‘ I owe you, Piso,’ he said, ‘ many thanks for mercies 
shown to my wife and my little ones here, and I am 
glad to see you among us. We are far apart enough as 
the world measures such things, but in Christ we are 
one. At such times as these, when the Prince of Dark¬ 
ness rules, we ought if ever to draw toward each other, 
that so we may make better our common defence. I 
greet you as a brother — I trust to love you as one.’ 

I told him that nothing should be wanting on my 
part toward a free and friendly intercourse ; that from 
all I had heard of him I had conceived a high regard 
for him, and owed him more thanks for what he naci 


12 


A U R E L I A N 


done in behalf of our religion, than he could me for anj 
services I had rendered him. 

‘ Me ? ’ said he, and his head fell upon his bosom. 
‘ What have I done for Christ to deserve the thanks ol 
any ? I have preached and I have prayed ; I have op¬ 
posed heresies and errors ; I have wrestled with the 
enemies and corrupters of our faith within our own body 
and without; but the fruit seems nothing. The gentile 
is still omnipotent — heresy and error still abound.’ 

‘Yes, Macer,’ I replied, ‘that is certainly so, and 
may be so for many years to come, but still we are 
gaining. He who can remeipber twenty years can count 
a great increase. After the testimony borne by the 
martyrs of the Decian persecution to their faith, and all 
the proof they gave of sincere attachment to the doctrine 
of Christ, crowds have entered the church, an - hundred 
for every one whose blood then flowed.’ 

‘ And now,’ said Macer, his eye kindling with its wild 
fires, ‘ the church is dead ! The truest prayer that the 
Christian can now offer is, that it would please God to 
try us again as it were by fire ! We slumber, Piso ! 
The Christians are not now the Nazarites they were in 
the first age of the church. Divisions have crept in ; 
tares have been sown with the wheat, and have come 
up, and are choking the true plants of God. I know 
not but that the signs of terror which are scaring the 
heavens ought rather to be hailed as tokens of love. Bet¬ 
ter a thousand perish on the rack or by the axe, than 
that the church itself faint away and die.’ 

‘ It will not do,’ said Probus, ‘ always to depend upon 
such remedies of our sloth and heresies. Surely it were 
better to prosper in some other and happier way. A^ I 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


13 


.hink we can say of persecution, and of the oppositions 
of our enemies, is this, that if it be in the providence o^ 
God that they cannot be avoided, we have cause to bless 
him that their issue is good rather than evil ; that they 
serve as tests by which the genuine is tried and proved ; 
that they give the best and highest testimony to the 
world that man can give, of his sincerity ; that they 
serve to bind together into one compact and invincible 
phalanx the disciples of our common master, however 
in many things they may divide and separate. But, 
were it not better, if we could attain an equal good 
without the suffering ? ’ 

‘ I believe that to be impossible,’ said Macer. ‘ Since 
Jesus began his ministry, persecution has been the rod 
that has been laid upon the church without sparing, and 
the fruit has been abundant. Without it, like these 
foolish children, we might run riot in all iniquity.’ 

‘ I do not say that the rod has not been needed,’ an¬ 
swered Probus, ‘ nor that good has not ensued ; but only, 
that it would be better, wiser, and happier, to reach the 
same good without the rod ; just as it is better when 
your children, without chastisement, fulfil your wishes 
and perform their tasks. We hope and trust that our 
children will grow up to such virtue, that they will no 
longer need the discipline of suffering to make them bet¬ 
ter. Ought we not to look and pray for a period to 
arrive iw the history of the church, when men shall no 
longer need to be lashed and driven, but shall of them¬ 
selves discern what is best and cleave to it ? ’ 

' That might indeed be better,’ replied the other; ‘ but 
the time is not come for it yet. The church I say is 
2 VOL. II. 


14 


A U R E L I A N . 


corrupt, and it cries out for another purging. Christians 
are already lording it over one another. The bishop of 
Kome sets himself up, as a lord, over subjects. A Ro¬ 
man Ctesar walks it not more proudly. What with his 
robes of state, and his seat of gold, and his golden rod, 
and his altar set out with vessels of gold and silver, 
and his long train of menials and subordinates, poor 
simple Macer, who learned of Christ, as he hopes, is at 
a loss to discern the follower of the lowly Jesus, but 
takes Felix, the Christian servant, for some Fronto of a 
Heathen temple ! Were the power mine, as the will is, 
never would I stay for Aurelian,but my own arm should 
sweep from the places they pollute the worst enemies of 
the Saviour. Did Jesus die that Felix might flaunt his 
peacock’s feathers in the face of Rome ? ’ 

‘ We cannot hope, Macer,’ answered Probus, ‘ to grow 
up to perfection at once. I see and bewail the errors at 
which you point as well as you. But if, to remove them, 
we bring down the heavy arm of Rome upon our heads 
— the remedy may prove worse than the disease.’ 

‘ No. That could not be ! Let those who with open 
eyes abuse the gifts of God, perish ! If this faith can¬ 
not be maintained undefiled by Heathen additions, let it 
perish ! ’ 

‘ But God dealeth not so with us,’ continued Probus ; 
‘ he beareth long and patiently. We are not destroyed 
because in the first years of our life we do not rise to all 
virtue, but are spared to fourscore. Ought we not to 
manifest a like patience and forbearance ? By waiting 
patiently w^e shall see our faults, and one by one correct 
them. There is still some reason and discernment left 
among us. We are not all fools and blind. And the 


A U R E L I A N. 


16 


faults which we correct ourselves, by our own action, 
and the conviction of our own minds acting freely and 
voluntarily, will be more truly corrected, than if we are 
but frightened away from them for a time by the terrors 
of the Roman sword. I think, Macer, and so thinks 
Piso, that, far from seeking to inflame the common 
mind, and so drawing upon us the evils which are now 
with reason apprehended, we should rather aim to ward 
them off.’ 

‘ Never !’ cried Macer with utmost indignation. ‘ Shall 
the soldier of the cross shrink —’ 

‘ No, Macer, he need not shrink. Let him stand armed 
in panoply complete ; prompt to serve, willing to die ; 
but let him not wantonly provoke an enemy who may 
not only destroy him, that were a little thing, but, in the 
fury of the onset, thousands with him, and, perhaps, with 
them the very faith for which they die ! The Christian 
is not guiltless who — though it be in the cause of 
Christ — rushes upon unnecessary death. You, Macer, 
are not only a Christian and soldier of Jesus Christ, but 
^a man, who, having received life from the Creator, have 
no right wantonly to throw it away. You are a hus¬ 
band, and you are bound to live for your wife ; — these 
are your children, and you are bound to live for them.’ 

‘ He,’ said Macer, solemnly, ‘ who hateth not father 
and mother and wife and children and brethren and sis¬ 
ter, yea and his own life also, cannot be my disciple.’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Probus, ‘ that is true ; we are to be 
ready and willing to suffer for Christ and truth ; but not 
to seek it. He who seeks martyrdom is no martyr. 
Selfish passions have then mingled their impure current 
with tha'' of love to God, and the sacrifice i*:! not without 


16 


A U R E L I A N . 


spot and blemish. Jesus did not so ; nor his fiist fob 
lowers. When the Lord was persecuted in one city, he 
staid not there to inflame it more and more ; he fled to 
another. Paul and Peter and Barnabas stood ever 
for their rights ; they suffered not wrong willingly. 
When the ark of truth is intrusted to few hands, they 
must bear it forward boldly, but with care, else are they 
at a blow cut off, and the ark with its precious burden 
borne away and lost — or miracles alone can rescue it. 
But when the time comes that no prudence or care will 
avail, then they may not refuse the issue, but must show 
that life is nothing in comparison of truth and God.’ 

‘ Probus,’ said Macer, ‘ I like not your timid counsels. 
’Tis not by such that Christ’s cause shall ever advance; 
or that period ever come when he, the long-looked and 
waited for, shall descend, and the millenial reign begin. 
Life is nothing to me and less than nothing. I hold it 
as dirt and dross. And if by throwing it away I can 
add such a commentary to my preaching as shall strike 
a single Pagan heart, I shall not have died in vain ; and 
if the blood that shall flow from these veins, may serve 
but as a purge, to carry off the foul humors that now 
fester and rage in the body of the church, thrice happy 
shall I be to see it flow. And for these — let them he 
as the women and children of other times, and hold not 
back when their master calls. Arria ! do thou set be¬ 
fore thee St. Blandina, and if the Lord let thee be as 
her, thou wilt have cause to bless his name.’ 

‘ Never, Macer, would I shrink from any trial to 
which the Lord in his wisdom might call me — that you 
know. But has not Probus uttered a truth, when he 
says, that we are not innocent, and never glorious, when 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


17 


we seek death ? that he who seeks martyrdom is no 
martyr ? Listen, Macer, to the wisdom of Probus and 
the noble Piso. Did you not promise that you would 
patiently hear them ? ’ 

‘Woman — I have heard them — their words are 
naught, stark naught, or worse. Where would have 
been the blessed gospel at this hour, had it been commit¬ 
ted to such counsels ? Even under Nero would it have 
died for want of those who were willing to die for it. I 
am a soldier of the cross, whose very vocation it is to 
fight and die. And if I may but die, blessed Jesus, for 
thee ! then may I hope that thou wilt deal mercifully 
with thy servant at thy judgment-seat. I hear thy voice 
ever sounding in my ear, reproving me for my coward¬ 
ice. Have patience with me, and I will give thee all. 
And if labor, and torture, and death, would but cancel 
sin !— But alas ! even they may not suffice.’ 

‘ Then, dear father,’ said one of his daughters who 
had drawn near and seated herself at his knee, while 
the others had gathered round, ‘ then will we add our¬ 
selves to the sacrifice.’ 

‘Would you?’ said Macer — in an absent, musing 
way — as if some other thought were occupying him. 

Thinking that his love of his children, evidently a 
very strong affection in him, might be made to act as a 
restraint, I said, ‘ that I feared he greatly exposed his 
little family to unnecessary danger. Already had his 
dwelling been once assailed, and the people were now 
ripe for any violence. This group of little ones can ill 
encounter a rude and furious mob.’ 

‘ They can die, can they not ?’ said Macer. ‘ Is tha 
2 * VOL. II. 


IS 


A U R E L I A N . 


difficult, or impossible ? If the Lord need them, the} 
are his. I can ask no happier lot for them than that by 
death they may glorify God. And what is it to die so, 
more than in another way ? Let them die in their beds, 
and whom do they benefit ? They die then to them¬ 
selves, and no one is the gainer ; let them die by the 
sword of Varus, or by the stones of the populace, and 
then they become themselves stones in the fouraation 
of that temple of God, of which Jesus is the chief 
corner-stone, and they are glorious forever. What say 
you, Cicer, will you die for Christ ? ’ 

The little fellow hid his head in his father’s bosom at 
this sudden appeal, but soon drew it out and said, 

‘ I would rather die for you, father.’ 

‘ Ah ! ’ said Macer, ‘ how am I punished in my chil¬ 
dren ! Cicer, would you not die for Christ ? ’ 

‘ I would die for him if you wish it.’ 

‘ Macer,’ said Probus, ‘ do you not see how God has 
bound you and this family into one ? and he surely re¬ 
quires you not to separate yourself, their natural pro¬ 
tector, from them forever ; still less, to involve them in 
all the sufferings which, taking the course you do, may 
come upon them at any hour.” 

‘ Probus ! their death would give me more pleasure 
than their life, dying for Christ. I love them now and 
here, fondly as ever parent loved his children, — but 
what is now, and here ? Nothing. The suffering of 
an hour or of a moment joins us together again, where 
suffering shall be no more, and death no more. To¬ 
morrow ! yes, to-morrow ! would I that the wrath ol 
these idol-worshippers might be turned against us. 
Rome must be roused ; she sleeps the sleep of death 


A U U E L I A N . 


10 


and the church sleeps it too ; both need that they who 
are for the Lord should stand forth, and, not waiting to 
be attacked, themselves assail the enemy, who need 
but to be assailed with the zeal and courage of men, 
who were once to be found in the church, to be driven 
at all points.’ 

‘ But, father,’ said the daughter who had spoken be¬ 
fore, ‘ other Christians think not so. They believe for 
the most part, as I hear, with Probus and Piso, that on 
no account should we provoke the gentiles, or give them 
cause of complaint against us ; they think that to do so 
would greatly harm us ; that our duty is to go on the 
even tenor of our way, worshipping God after our own 
doctrine, and in our own manner, and claiming and ex¬ 
ercising all our rights as citizens, but abstaining from 
every act that might rouse their anger, or needlessly ir¬ 
ritate them — irritated, necessarily, almostbeyond bearing, 
by the wide and increasing prosperity of our faith, and 
the daily falling away of the temple worshippers. Would 
it be right, dearest father, to do that which others ap¬ 
proved not, and the effect of which might be, not only to 
draw down evil upon your and our heads, but upon 
thousands of others ? We cannot separate ourselves 
from our brethren ; if one suffer all will suffer—’ 

‘ -iElia, my daughter, there is a judge within the 
breast, whom I am bound to obey rather than any other 
counsellor, either man or woman. I cannot believe, be¬ 
cause another believes, a certain truth. Neither can I 
act in a certain way because others hold it their duty to 
act so. I must obey the inward voice, and no other. If 
I abandon this, I am lost — I am on the desert without 
Bun, moon or stars to guide me. All the powers ol 


20 


A U R E L I A N. 


the earth could not bribe nor drag me from that which I 
hold to be the true order of conduct for me ; shown by 
the finger of God to he such.’ 

‘ But, father,’ continued the daughter, pursuing hei 
object, ‘are we not too lately entered among the Chris¬ 
tians to take upon us a course which they condemn ? It 
is but yesterday that we were among the enemies of 
this faith. Are we to-day to assume the part of lead¬ 
ers ? Would not modesty teach us a different lesson ?’ 

‘ Modesty has nothing to do with truth,’ said Macer. 

‘ He who is wholly a Christian to-day, is all that he can 
be to-morrow, or next year. I am as old in faith and 
zeal as Piso, Probus, or Felix. No one can believe 
more, or more heartily, by believing longer. Nay, it 
is they who are newly saved who are most sensible tc 
the blessing. Custom in religion as in ether things 
dulls the soul. Were I a Christian much longer before 
God called me to serve him by suffering or death, I fear 
I should be then spiritually dead, and so worse than 
before I believed. Let it be to-morrow, O Lord, that I 
shall glorify thee ! ’ 

It was plain that little impression was to be made 
upon the mind of Macer. But we ceased not to urge 
him farther, his wife and elder children uniting with us 
in importunate entreaty and expostulation. But all in 
vain. In his stern and honest enthusiasm he believed 
all prudence, cowardice ; all calculation, worldliness ; 
all moderation and temperance, treason to the church 
and Christ. Yet none of the natural current of the affec¬ 
tions seemed to be dried up or poisoned. No one could 
be more bound to his wife and children ; and, toward ug, 
though in our talk we spared him not, he ever main* 


A TJ R E L I A N . 


2 


(ained the same frank and open manner—yielding never 
an inch of ground, and uttering himself with an earnest¬ 
ness and fury such as I never saw in another ; but, soon 
as he had ceased speaking, subsiding into a gentleness 
that seemed almost that of a woman, and playfully 
sporting with the little boy that he held on his knee. 

Soon as our conversation was ended, Macer, turning 
to his wife, exclaimed, 

‘ But what hinders that we should set before our vis¬ 
iters such hospitality as our poor house affords ? Arria, 
have we not such as may well enough entertain Chris¬ 
tians ? ’ 

idZlia, at a word from her mother, and accompanied 
by her sister, immediately busied themselves in the sim¬ 
ple rites of hospitality, and soon covered the table which 
stood in the centre of the room with bread, lettuces, figs, 
and a flask of wine. While they were thus engaged, I 
could not hut observe the difference in appearance of 
the two elder sisters, who, with equal alacrity, were set¬ 
ting out the provisions for our repast. One was clad 
like the others of the family in the garments common 
to the poor. The other — she who had spoken — was 
arrayed, not richly, but almost so, or, I should rather 
say, fancifully, and with studied regard to effect. 
While I was wondering at this, and seeking in my own 
mind for its explanation, I was interrupted in my 
thoughts by Macer. 

‘ Thanks to Aurelian, Piso, we are able, though poor, 
as you see, and dwelling in these almost subterranean 
vaults, to live above the fear of absolute want. But es¬ 
pecially are we indebted for many of our comforts, and 
for such lux.iry as this flask of Massican, to my partly 


22 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


geniile daughter, jElia, whom you behold incvhig 
among us, as if by her attire she were not of us — but 
Cicer's heart is not truer—and who will, despite her 
faith and her father’s bidding, dance and sing for the 
merriment of these idolaters. Never before, I believe, 
had Christian preacher a dancing-girl for a daughter.’ 

A deep blush passed over the features of the daugh¬ 
ter as she answered, 

‘ But, father, you know that in my judgment — and 
whose in this matter is so to be trusted ? — I am in no 
way injured by my art, and it adds somewhat to the 
common stock. I see not why I need be any the less a 
Christian, because I dance ; especially, as with me, it is 
but one of the forms of labor. Were it forbidden by our 
faith, or could it be shown to be to me an evil, I would 
cease. But most sure I am it is neither. Let me now 
appeal to Probus for my justification, and to Piso.’ 

‘ Doubtless,’ said Probus, ‘ those Christians are righi 
who abstain from the theatres, the amphitheatres, the 
circuses, and from the places of public amusement where 
sights and sounds meet ear and eye such as the pure 
should never hear or see, and such as none can hear or 
see and maintain their purity. The soul is damaged 
in spite of herself. But for these arts of music and dan¬ 
cing, practised for the harmless entertainment of those 
who feast their friends,—where alone I warrant jElia is 
found — who can doubt that she is right ? Were not 
the reception of the religion of Christ compatible with 
indulgence in innocent amusement, or the practice of 
harmless arts such as these, few, I fear, would receive 
it. Christianity condemns many things, which, by Pa 
gans, are held to he allowable, but not everything ’ 


A U R E L I A N . 


23 


‘ Willingly would I abandon my art,’ said ^Elia, ‘ did 
I percive it to injure the soul ; or could I in other ways 
Duy bread for our household. So dearly do I prize thia 
new-found faith, that for its sake, were it to be retained 
in no other way, would I relinquish it, and sink into 
the deeper poverty that would then be ours, or drudge 
at some humbler .toil.’ 

‘ Do it, do it, jElia,’ said Macer ; ‘ and the Lord will 
love thee all the more. ’Tis the only spot on thy white 
and glistering robes. The Lord loves not more than T 
to see thee wheeling and waving to and fro, to supply 
mirth to those, who, mayhap, would crucify thee the 
next hour, as others crucified thy master.’ 

Tears fell from the eyes of the fair girl as she an¬ 
swered, 

‘ Father, it shall be as you wish. Not willingly, but 
by constraint, have I labored as I have. God will not 
forsake us, and will, I cannot doubt, open some new 
path of labor for me — if indeed the disorders of the 
times do not first scatter or destroy us.’ 

I here said to Macer and his daughter, that there 
need be no hesitation about abandoning the employment 
in question, from any doubt concerning a future occupa¬ 
tion ; if jElia would but accompany her mother, when 
next she went to visit Julia, I could assure her of ob¬ 
taining there all she could desire. 

At this the little boy, whom Macer held, clapped his 
hands and cried out with joy — ‘ Ah ! then will .^lia 
be always with us and go away no more ; ’ and flying 
to his sister was caught by her in her arms. 

The joy diffused throughout the little circle at this 
news was great. All were glad that AElia was to danca 


24 


A U R E L I A N . 


and sing- no more, for all wished her at home, ?nd hci 
profession had kept her absent almost every day. The 
table was now spread, and we sat down to the frugal 
repast, Macer first offering a prayer to God. 

‘ It is singular,’ said he, when we were seated, ‘ that in 
my Heathen estate, I ever asked the blessing of the gods 
before I ate. Nay, and notwithstanding the abomina 
tions of my life, was often within the temples a 
worshipper. I verily believe there are many Christians 
who pray less than the Heathen, and less after they be¬ 
come Christian than before.’ 

‘ I can readily believe it,* said Probus. ‘ False re¬ 
ligions multiply outward acts ; and for the reason, that 
they make religion to consist in them. A true faith, 
which places religion in the inward disposition, not in 
services, will diminish them. More prayers were said, 
and more rites performed in the temple of Jupiter, where 
my father was priest, than the Christian church, where 
I serve, ever witnesses. But what then ? With the Pa¬ 
gan worshipper religion end^d when the service closed, 
and he turned from the temple to the world. With the 
Christian, the highest service only then commences 
when he leaves the church. Religion, with him, is 
virtuous action, more than it is meditation or prayer. 
He prays without ceasing, not by uttering without cessa¬ 
tion the language of prayer,but by living holily. Every 
act of every hour, which is done conscientiously is a 
prayer, as well as the words we speak, and is more plea¬ 
sing to God, for the reason that practice is better than 
mere profession — doing better than saying.’ 

‘ That is just, Prohus,’ replied Macer. ‘ When 1 
prayed as an idolater, it was because I believed that the 


A U R E L I A N. 


25 


Pfods re(iuired such outward acknowledgment, and that 
KomR evil or other might befall me through their ven¬ 
geance, if I did not. But when I had ended that duty I 
had ended my religion, and my vices went on none the 
less pro^-perously. Often indeed my prayers were for 
special favors, — wealth, or success in some*afrair — and 
when, after wearying myself with repeating them a 
thousand times, the favors were not bestowed, how have 
I left the temple in a rage, cursing the gods I had just 
been worshipping, and swearing never more to propitiate 
them by prayer or sacrifice. Sometimes I repented of 
such violence, but oftener kept my word and tried some 
other god. You, Probus, were, I may believe, of a more 
even temper ? ’ 

‘ Yes, perhaps so. My father was one of the most 
patient and gentle of men, and religious after th.e manner 
of our remoter ancestors of the days of the republic. 
He was my instructer ; and from him I learned truths 
which were sufficient for my happiness under ordinary 
circumstances. I was a devout and constant worshipper 
of the gods. My every-day life may then have been as 
pure as it has been since I have been a Christian ; and 
my prayers as many or more. The instincts of my na¬ 
ture, which carried up the soul toward some great and 
infinite being, which I could not resist, kept me within 
the bounds of that prudent and virtuous life which I be¬ 
lieved would be most acceptable to them. But when a 
day of heavy and insupportable calamity came upon me 
and I was made to look after the foundations of what 1 
had been believing, I found there were none. I was 
like a ship tossed about by the storms, without ruddel 
3 VOL. n. 


26 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


or pilot. I then knew not whether there were gods or 
not ; or if there were any, who, among the muliiplicitv 
worshipped in Rome, the true ones were. In my griel. 
I railed at the heavens and their rulers, for not revealing 
themselves tc us in our darkness and weakness ; and 
cursed them for their cruelty. Soon after I became a 
Christian. The difference between my state then, and 
now, is this. I believed then ; but it was merely in¬ 
stinctive. I could give no reason to myself nor to others 
for my faith. It was something and yet nothing. Now, 
I have somewhat to stand upon. I can prove to myself, 
and to others, my religion, as well as other things. I 
have knowledge as well as blind belief. It is good to 
believe in something, and in some sort, though one can 
give no account of his faith ; but it is better to believe in 
that which we know, as we know other things. I have 
now, as a Christian, the same strength of belief in God, 
providence, and futurity,that I have in any facts attested by 
history. Jesus has announced them or confirmed them, 
and they are susceptible of proof. I differed from you, 
Macer, in this ; that I cursed not the gods in my passion, 
or caprice ; I was for years and years their humble, and 
contented, and patient worshipper. I rebelled not till I 
suffered cruel disappointment, and in my faith could find 
no consolation or light. One real sorrow, by which the 
foundations of my earthly peace were all broken up, re 
vealed to me the nothingness of my so called religif)n. 
Into what a new world, Macer, has our new faith intro¬ 
duced us ! I am now happier than ever I was, even 
with my wife and children around me.’ 

‘ Some of our neighbors,’ said A -ria, ‘ wonder what it 
is that makes us so light of heart, notwithstanding out 


A U R E L I A N . 


27 


poverty and the dangers to which we are so often ex¬ 
posed. 1 tell them that they, who, like us, believe in 
the providence of a God, who is always near us and 
within us, and in the long reign with Christ as soon as 
death is past, have nothing to fear. That which they 
esteem the greatest evil of all, is, to us, an absolute 
gain. Upon this they either silently wonder, or laugh 
and deride. However, many too believe.’ 

‘ Probus, we are all ready to be offered up,’ the enthu¬ 
siast rejoined. ‘ God’s mercy to me is beyond all pow¬ 
er of mine to describe, in that he has touched and con¬ 
verted the hearts of every one under my roof. Now if 
to this mercy he will but add one more, that we may 
glorify him by our death as well as in our life, the cup 
of his servant will be full and running over.’ 

Probus did not choose again to engage with his con¬ 
vert upon that theme, knowing him to be beyond the 
reach of influence and control. We could not but mar¬ 
vel to see to what extent he had infused his own enthu¬ 
siasm into his family. His wife indeed and elder 
daughters would willingly see him calmer and less vio¬ 
lent when abroad, but like him, being by nature of 
warm temperament, they are like him Christians warm 
and zealous beyond almost any whom I have seen. 
They are as yet also so recently transferred from their 
Heathen to their Christian state, that their sight is still 
lazzled, and they see not objects in their true shapes 
ind proportions. In their joy they seem to others, and 
perhaps often are, greatly extravagant in the expression 
of their feelings and opinions. 

When our temperate repast was ended, Macer again 
grayed, and we then separated. Our visit proved wholly 


2S 


A U R E L l A N . 


ineffectual as to the purpose we had in view, but by no 
means so when I consider the acquaintance which it 
thus gave me with a family in the very humblest con¬ 
dition, who yet were holding and equally prizing the 
same opinions, at which, after so much research and la¬ 
bor, I had myself arrived. I perceived in this power of 
Christianity to adapt itself to minds so different in their 
state of previous preparation, and in their ability to ex¬ 
amine and sift a question which was offered to them ; 
in the facility and quickness with which it seized both 
upon the understanding and the affections; in the deep 
convictions which it produced of its own truth and excel¬ 
lence, and the scorn and horror with which it filled the 
mind for its former superstitions — I saw in this an ele¬ 
ment of strength, and of dominion, such as even I had 
hardly conceived, and which assures me that this religion 
is destined to a universal empire. Not more certainly 
do all men need it than they will have it. When in 
this manner, with everything against it, in the habits, 
lives, and prejudices of men — with itself almost against 
itself in its strictness and uncompromising morality — 
it nevertheless forces its way into minds of every variety 
of character, and diffuses wherever it goes the same in¬ 
ward happiness ; — its success under such circumstances 
is at once an argument for its truth, and an assurance 
that it will pause in its progress not till it shall have 
subdued the world to its dominion. 

Julia was deeply interested in all that I told her of 
•he family of Macer, and will make them all her special 
charge. ^Elia will I hope become in some capacity a 
member of our household. 


A U R E L I A N . 


2d 


^ ought to tell you that we have often of late been at 
Jie Gardens, where we have seen both Li via and Aure 
ian. Livia is the same, but the Emperor is changed. A 
gloomy horror seems to sit upon him, which both indis¬ 
poses him to converse as formerly, and others to converse 
with him. Especially has he shown himself averse tc 
discussion of any point that concerns the Christians, at 
least with me. When I would willingly have drawn 
him that way, he has shrunk from it with an expression 
of distaste, or with more expressive silence, or the dark 
language of his terrific frown. For me however he has 
no terrors, and I have resolved to break through all the 
barriers he chooses to set up around him, and learn if I 
can what his feelings and purposes precisely are. One 
conversation may reveal them in such a way, as may 
make it sufficiently plain what part he means to act, and 
what measure of truth there may be in the current ru¬ 
mors ; in which, for my own part, I cannot bring myselt 
to place much reliance. I doubt even concerning the 
death of Aurelia, whether, even if it has taken place, it is 
not to be traced to some cause other than her religion. 

A day has passed. I have seen the Emperor, as I 
was resolved to do, and now I no longer doubt what his 
designs are, nor that they are dark as they have been 
represented ; yea, and darker, even as night is darker 
than day. 

Upon reaching the palace, I was told that the Empe¬ 
ror was exercising at the hippodrome, toward which I 
then bent my steps. It lies at some distance from the^ 
palace, concealed from it by intervening groves. Soon 
3* VOL. II. 


30 


A U R E L I A N . 


as I came in sight of it, I beheld Aurelian upon his fa^ 
vorite horse running the course as if contending for a 
prize, plying, the while, the fierce animal he bestrode 
with the lash, as if he were some laggard who needed 
rousing to his work. Swifter than the wind he flew 
by me, how many times I know not, without noting 
apparently that any one was present beside the attendant 
slaves ; nor did he cease till the horse, spent and exhaus¬ 
ted, no longer obeyed the will of even the Emperor of 
the world. Many a noble charger has he in this manner 
rode till he has fallen dead. So long used has this man 
been to the terrific game of war, and the scenes and 
sights which that reveals, stirring to their depths all the 
direst passions of our nature, that now, at home and at 
peace, life grows stale and flat, and needs the artificial 
stimulants which violent and extreme modes of action 
can alone supply. The death of a horse on the course, 
answers now for a legion slain in battle ; an unruly, or 
disobedient, or idle slave hewn in two, affords the relief 
which the execution of prisoners has been accustomed to 
yield. Weary of inaction, he pants for the day to arrive 
when, having completed the designs he has set on foot in 
the city, he shall again join the army, now accumulating in 
huge masses in Thrace, and once more find himself in the 
East, on the way to new conquests and fresh slaughter. 

As he threw himself from his horse, now breathing 
hard and scarcely supporting himself, the foam rolling 
from him like snow, he saluted me in his usual manner. 

A fair and fortunate day to you, Piso ! And what 
may be the news in the city ? I have rode fast and far, 
but have heard nothing. I come back empty as I went 
out, save the heat which I have put into mv veins This 


A U R E L I A N. 


31 


ihorse is he I was seen upon from the walls of Palmyra oy 
your and other traitor eyes. But for first passing through 
the better part of my leg and then the saddle, the arrow 
that hit me then had been the death of him. But death is 
not for him, nor he for death ; he and his rider are some¬ 
thing alike, and will long be so, if auguries ever speak 
truth. And if there be not truth in auguries, Piso, where 
is it to be found among mortals ? These three morn¬ 
ings have I rode him to see if in this manner he could 
be destroyed, but thou seest how it issues ; I should 
destroy myself before him. But what, I say, is the 
news ? How does the lady Julia ? and the Queen ? ’ 
Replying first to these last inquiries, I then said that 
there was little news I believed in the city. The only 
thing, perhaps, that could be treated as news, was the 
general uneasiness of the Christians. 

‘ Ah ! They are uneasy ? By the gods, not wholly 
without reason. Were it not for them I had now been, not 
here chafing my horse and myself on a hippodrome, but 
tearing up instead the hard sands of the Syrian deserts. 
They weigh upon me like a nightmare ! They are a visi¬ 
ble curse of the gods upon the state — but, being seen, it 
can be removed. I reckon not you among this tribe, Piso, 
when I speak of them. What purpose is imputed ? ’ 

‘ Rumor varies. No distinct purpose is named, but 
rather a general one of abridging some of their liberties— 
suppressing their worship, and silencing their priests.’ 

‘ Goes it no further ? ’ 

‘ Not with many ; for the people are still willing to 
believe that Aurelian will inflict no needless suffering 
Tney see you great in war, severe in the chastisement 
of the enemies of the state, and just in the punishmen? 


32 


A U K E L I A N . 


inflicted upon domestic rebels ; and they conceive tha 
in regard to this simple people you will not go beyond 
the rigor I have just named.’ 

‘ Truly they give me credit,’ replied Aurelian, ‘ for 
vvhat I scarcely deserve. But an Emperor can never 
hear the truth. Piso ! they will find themselves deceiv¬ 
ed. One or the other must fall—Helenism or Christian¬ 
ity ! I knew not, till my late return from the East, the 
ravages made by this modern superstition, not only 
throughout Rome, but the world. In this direction I 
have for many years been blind. I have had eyes only 
for the distant enemies of my country, and the glories of 
the battle-field. But now, upon resting here a space in 
the heart of the empire, I find that heart eaten out and 
gone ; the religion of ancient Rome, which was its very 
life, decaying, and almost dead, through the rank growth 
of this overshadowing poison-tree that has shot up at its 
side. It must be cut up by the roots—the branches 
hewn away — the leaves stripped and scattered to the 
winds — nay, the very least fibre that lurks below the 
surface with life in it, must be wrenched out and con¬ 
sumed. We must do thus by the Christians and their 
faith, or they will do so by us.’ 

‘ I am hardly willing,’ I replied, ‘ to believe what I 
have heard ; nor will I believe it. It were an act, so 
mad and unwise, as well as so crupl, that I will not be 
lieve it though coming from the lips of Aurelian ! ’ 

‘ It is true, Piso, as the light of yonder sun ! But if 
\hou wilt not believe, wait a day or two and proof enough 
shalt thou have—proof that shall cure thy infidelity in a 
river of Christian blood.’ 

‘ Sti'l, Aurelian,’ I answered. ‘ I believe not : noi* 


AU RE LI AN. 


33 


will, tnl that river shall run down before my eyes red 
and thick as the Orontes ! ’ 

‘ How, Piso, is this ? I thought you knew me ! ’ 

‘ In part I am sure I do. I know you neither to be a 
madman nor a fool, both which in one would you be 
to attempt what you have now threatened.’ 

‘ Young Piso, you are bold ! ’ 

‘ I make no boast of courage,’ I replied; ‘ I know thai 
in familiar speech with Aurelian, I need not fear him. 
Surely you would not converse on such a subject with a 
slave or a flatterer. A Piso can be neither. I can 
speak, or I can be silent ; but if I speak— ’ 

‘ Say on, say on, in the name of the gods ! ’ 

‘ What I would say to Aurelian then is this, that 
slaughter as he may, the Christians cannot be extermina¬ 
ted ; that though he decimated, first Rome and then the 
empire, there would still be left a seed that would spring 
up and bear its proper harvest. Nay, Aurelian, though 
you halved the empire, you could not win your game. 
The Christians are more than you deem them.’ 

‘ Be it so,’ replied the Emperor ; ‘ nevertheless I will 
try. But they are not so many as you rate them at, 
neither by a direct nor an indirect enumeration.’ 

‘ Let that pass, then,’ I answered. ‘ Let them be a half, 
a quarter, a tenth part of what I believe them to be, it 
will be the same ; they cannot be exterminated. Soon 
as the work of death is done, that of life will begin again, 
and the growth will be the more rank for the blood spilles 
around. Outside of the tenth part, Aurelian, that now 
openly professes this new religion, there lies another equa' 
number of those who do not openly profess it, but do sa 
either secretly, or else view it with favor and with tha 


34 


AU RE LI A N . 


desire to accept it. Your violence, inflicted upon the 
open believers, reaches not them, for they are an invisible 
multitude ; but no sooner has it fallen and done its work 
of ruin, than this other multitude slowly reveals itself 
and stands forth heirs and professors of the persecuted 
faith, and ready, like those who went before them, to 
live for it and die for it.’ 

‘ What you say may be so,’ answered Aurelian ; ‘ I 
had thought not of it. Nevertheless, I will try.’ 

‘ Moreover,’ I continued, ‘ in every time of persecution, 
there are those — sincere believers, but timid—who dare 
not meet the threatened horrors. These deny not their 
faith, but they shrink from sight; they for a season dis¬ 
appear ; their hearts worship as ever, but their tongues 
are silent ; and search as they may, your emissaries of 
blood cannot find them. But soon as the storm is over- 
pastj then do they come forth again, as insects from the 
leaves that sheltered them from the storm, and fill again 
the forsaken churches.’ 

‘ Nevertheless I will try for them.’ 

‘ Then will you be, Aurelian, as one that sheds blood, 
because he will shed it — seeing that the end at which 
you aim cannot in such way be reached. Confiscation, 
imprisonment, scourging, fires, torture, and death, will 
all be in vain ; and with no more prospect that by such 
oppression Christianity can be annihilated, than there 
would be of rooting out poppies from your fields when 
as you struck off the heads or tore up the old roots, the 
ripe seeds were scattered abroad over the soil, a thousand 
for every parent stalk that fell. You will drench your¬ 
self in the blood of the innocent, only that you may do 
It — while no effect shall follow.’ 


A U R E L I A N. 


35 


‘ Let it be so then ; even so. Still I will not forbear. 
But this [ know, Piso, that when a disaffection has bro* 
ken out in a legion, and I have caused the half thereof, 
or its tenth, to be drawn forth and cut to pieces by the 
other part, the danger has disappeared. The physic has 
been bitter, but it has cured the patient ! I am a good 
surgeon ; and well used to I-elting blood. I know the 
wonders it works and sha»ll try it now, not doubting to 
see some good effects. When poison is in the veins, 
let out the blood, and the new that comes in is whole¬ 
some. Rome is poisoned ! ’ 

‘ Great Emperor,’ I replied, ‘ you know nothing, allow 
me to say, whereof you affirm. You know not the Chris¬ 
tians, and how can you deem them poison to the state ? A 
purer brotherhood never has the world seen. I am but of 
late one among them, and it is but a few months since I 
thought of them as you now do. But I knew nothing of 
them. Now I know them. And knowledge has placed 
them before me in another light. If, Aurelian— ’ 

‘ I know nothing of them, Piso, it is true ; and I wish to 
know nothing — nothing more, than that they are Chris¬ 
tians ! that they deny the good gods ! that they aim at 
the overthrow of the religion of the state — that religion 
under whose fostering care Rome has grown up to her 
giant size — that they are fire-brands of discord and 
quarrel in Rome and throughout the world ! Greater 
would my name be, could I extirpate this accursed tribe 
than it would be for triumphing over both the East and 
West, or though I gained the whole world.’ 

‘ Aurelian,’ I replied, ‘ this is not the language I used 
to hear from your lips. Another spirit possesses you 
and it is not hard to tell whence it comes.’ 


3G 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ You would say — from Pronto.’ 

‘ I wo'uld. There is the rank poison, that has turned 
the blood in the veins of one, whom justice and wisdom 
once ruled, into its own accursed subst!:<‘nce.’ 

‘ I and Rome, Piso,’ said Aurelian, ‘ owe much to 
Pronto. I confess that his spirit now possesses me. 
He has roused the latent piety into action and life, which 
I received with my mother’s milk, but which, the gods 
forgive me ! carried away by ambition, had well nigh 
gone quite out in my soul. My mother — dost thou 
know it ? — was a priestess of Apollo, and never did god 
or goddess so work by unseen influence to gain a mor¬ 
tal’s heart, as did she to fill mine with reverence of the 
deities of heaven — specially of the great god of light. 
[ was early a wayward child. When a soldier in the 
legions I now command, my life was what a soldier’s is 
— a life of action, hardship, peril, and bfood. The deities 
of Heaven soon became to me as if they were not. And 
so it has been for well nigh all the years of my life. 
But, the gods be thanked. Pronto has redeemed me * and 
since I have worn this diadem have I toiled, Rome can 
testify with what zeal, to restore to her gods their lost 
honors — to purge her worship of the foul corruptions 
that were bringing it into contempt — and raise it higher 
than ever in the honor of the people, by the magnificence 
of the temples I have built; by the gifts I have lavished 
upon them ; by the ample riches wherewith I have en¬ 
dowed the priesthood. And more than once, while this 
work has been achieving, has the form of my revered 
parent, beautiful in the dazzling robes of her office, stood 
by my bedside — whether in dream, or in vision, or in 
actual presence, I cannot tell — and blessed me for my 


A U R E LI AN . 


37 


pious enterprise — “ The gods be thanked,” the lins have 
said, or seemed to say, “ that thy youth lasts not always 
but that age has come, and with it second childhood in 
thy reverence of the gods, whose worship it was mine to 
put into thy infant heart. Go on thy way, my son 
Build up the fallen altars, and lay low the aspiring fanes 
o{ the wicked. Finish what thou hast begun, and all 
time shall pronounce thee greatest of the great.” Should 
I disobey the warning? The gods forbid ! and save me 
from such impiety. I am now, Piso, doubly armed for the 
work I have taken in hand—first by the zeal of the pious 
Fronto, and second, by the manifest finger of Heaven 
pointing the wayl should go. And, please the Almigh¬ 
ty Ruler ! I will enter upon it, and it shall not be for 
want of a determined will and of eyes too used to the 
shedding of blood to be frightened now though an ocean 
full were spilled before them, if this race be not utterly 
swept from the face of the earth, from the suckling to 
the silver head, from the beggar to the prince — and 
from Rome all around to the four winds, as far as her 
almighty arms can reach.’ 

My heart sunk within me as he spoke, and my knees 
trembled under me. I knew the power and spirit of the 
man, and I now saw that superstition had claimed him 
for her own ; that he would go about his work of death 
and ruin, armed with his own cruel and bloody mind, 
and urged behind by the fiercer spirit still of Pagan big¬ 
otry. It seemed to me, in spite of what I had just said 
myself, and thought I believed, as if the death-note of 
Christianity had now been rung in my ear. The voice 
of Aurelian as he spoke had lost its usual sharpness. 

4 VOL. II. 


/ 


3S AURELIAN. 

and fallen into a lower tone full of meaning.; and which 
said to me that his very inmost soul was pouring itsei: 
out, with the awful words he used. I felt utterly helpless 
ana undone — like an ant in the pathway of a giant — 
incapaoie of resistance or escape. I suppose all this was 
visible in my countenance. 1 said nothing ; and Aure- 
lian, after pausing a moment, went on. 

‘ Tnink me not, Piso, to be using the words of an idle 
braggart in what I have said. Who has known Aure- 
lian, when once he has threatened death, to hold back 
his nand ^ But I will give thee earnest of my truth I’ 

• 1 re'Quire it not, Aurelian. I question not thy truth.’ 

‘ 1 will give it notwithstanding, Piso. What will you 

think—you will think as you ever have of me — if I 
should say that already, and upon one of my own house, 
infected with this hell-begotten atheism, has the axe al¬ 
ready fallen I ’ 

Hearing the horrible truth from his own lips, it seemed 
as It I had never heard it before. I hardly had believed it. 

* Tyrant!’ I exclaimed, ‘ it cannot be ! What, Aurelia V 

‘ Ves, Aurelia! Keep thy young blood cool, Piso. 

Yes, Aurelia ! Ere I struck at others, it behoved me to 
reprove my own. It was no easy service, as you may 
guess, but it must be done. And not only was Aurelia 
herself pertinaciously wedded to this fatal mischief, but 
she was subduing the manly mind of Mucapor too, who, 
had he been successfully wrought upon, were as good as 
dead to me and to Rome— and he is one whom our le¬ 
gions cannot spare. We have Christians more than 
enough already in our ranks : a Christian general was 
not to be borne. This was additional matter of accusa¬ 
tion against Aureb’a, and made it right that sUe should 


A IT R E L I A N . 




die. But she had her free choice of life, honor, rank, 
nches, and, added to all, Mucapor, whose equal Rome 
does not hold, if she would but take them. One word 
spoken and they were all her own ; with no small chance 
that she should one day be whatLivia is. But that one 
word her obstinate superstition would not let her speaK.' 

‘ No, Aurelmn ; there is that in the Christian super¬ 
stition that always forbids the uttering- ot that one. 
word. Death to the Christian is but another word lor 
life. Apostacy is the true death. You have destroyeo 
the body of Aurelia, but her virtuous soul is aireauy 
with God, and it is you who have girded upon her orow 
a garland that shall never fade. Of that mucti may 
you make your boast.’ 

‘ Piso, I bear with you, and shall ; but there is nc 
other in Rome who might say so much.’ 

‘ Nay, nay, Aurelian, there I believe you belter than 
you make yourself. To him who is already the vi'ctiin 
of the axe or the beasts do you never deny the lioeriy 
of the tongue,—such as it then is.’ 

‘ Upon Piso, and he the husband of Julia, I can inh'ici 
no evil, nor permit it done.’ 

‘ I would take shelter, Aurelian, neither behind my 
own name, my father’s, nor my wife’s. I am a Christian 
—and such fate as may befall the rest, I would share. Yet 
not willingly, for life and happiness are dear to me as 
to you — and they are dear to all these innocent multi¬ 
tudes whom you do now, in the exercise of despotic 
power, doom to a sudden and abhorred death. Bethink 
yourself, Aurelian, before it be too late-—’ 

‘ I have bethought myself of it all,’ he replied — ‘ and 
were the suffering ten times more, and the blood to be 


40 


A U R E L I A N. 


poured out a thousand times more, 1 would draw back 
not one step. The die has been cast ; it has come up 
as it is, and so must be the game. I listen to no appeal. 

‘ Not from me,’ I replied ; ‘ but surely you will not 
deny a hearing to what these people may say in their 
own defence. That were neither just nor merciful; nor 
were it like Aurelian. There is much which by their 
proper organs tney might say to place before you their 
faith m the light of truth. You have heard what you 
have received concerning it, chiefly from the lips of 
Kronto ; and can he know what he has never learned ^ 
or tell it unperverted by prejudices black as night ? ’ 

‘ 1 have already said,’ rejoined the Emperor, ‘ that 1 
would hear them, and I will. But it can avail them no 
more than words uttered in the breath of the tempest that 
is raging up from the north. Hear them ! This day 
have I already heard them — from one of those madmen 
ot theirs who plague the streets of Rome. Passing early 
bv the temple of jEsculapius — that one which stands 
not an arrow’s flight from the column of Trajan — I 
came upon a dense crowd of all sorts of persons listen¬ 
ing to a gaunt figure of a man who spoke to them. 
Soon as I came against him, and paused on my horse 
for the crowd to make way, the wild beast who was de¬ 
claiming, shouted at me at the top of his voice, calling on 
me to ‘ hear the word of God which he would speak to 
me.’ Knowing him by such jaigon to be a Christian, I 
did as he desired, and there stood, while he, for my es¬ 
pecial instruction, laid bare the iniquities and follies of 
the Roman worship ; sent the priesthood and all who 
entered their temples to the infernal regions ; and 
prophesied against Rome — which he termed Babylon— 


A U R E L I A N . 


41 


ihat ere so many centuries were gone, her walls would 
lie even with the ground, her temples moulder in ruins, 
her language become extinct, and her people confounded 
with other nations and lost. And all this because I, 
whom he now called, if I remember the names aright, 
Ahaz and now Nebuchadnezzar, oppressed the children 
of God and held them in captivity : while in the same 
breath he bid me come on with my chains, gibbets, beasts, 
crosses, and fires, for they were ready, and would re¬ 
joice to bear their testimony in the cause of Christ. As 
I turned to resume my way, his words were ; ‘ Go on, 
thou man of pride and blood ; go on thy way ! The gates 
of hell swing open for thee ! Already the arm of the 
Lord is bared against thee ! the winged lightning strug¬ 
gles in his hand to smite thee ! I hear thy cry for mercy 
which no one answers — ’ and more, till I was beyond 
the reach of his owl’s voice. There was an appeal, 
Piso, from this people ! What think you of it ?’ 

‘ He whom you heard,’ I replied, ‘ I know, and know 
him to be honest and true ; as loyal a subject too as 
Rome holds. He is led away by his hot and hasty tem¬ 
per both to do and say what injures not only him, but 
all who are joined with him, and the cause he defends. 
He offends the Christians hardly less than others. Judge 
not all by him. He stands alone. If you would hear 
one whom all alike confide in, and who may fitly repre¬ 
sent the feelings and principles of the whole body of 
Christians, summon Probus. From him may you learn 
without exaggeration or concealment, without reproach 
of others or undue boasting of themselves, what the 
Christians are in their doctrines and their lives, as citizens 
4 * 


VOL. II. 


42 


A U R E L I A N 


of Rome and loyal subjects of Aurelian, and wliat, as 
citizens of heaven and loyal followers of Jesus Christ.’ 

The Emperor promised to consider it. He had no 
other reason to deny such favor, but the tedium of lis¬ 
tening to what could profit neither him nor others. 

We then turned toward the palace, where I saw 
Livia ; now as silent and sad as, when in Palmyra, she 
was lively and gay. Not that Aurelian abates the least 
of his worship, but that the gloom which overshadows 
him imparts itself to her, and that knowing what has 
befallen Aurelia, she cannot but feel it to be a possible 
thing for the blow to fall elsewhere and nearer. Yet is 
there the same outward show as ever. The palace is 
still thronged, with not Rome only, but by strangers 
from all quarters of the empire, anxious to pay their 
homage at once to the Empress of Rome, to the most 
beautiful woman in the world — such is the language— 
and to a daughter of the far-famed Zenobia. 

The city is now crowded with travelers of all nations, 
so much so that the inns can scarce receive them ; and 
hardly ever before was private hospitality so put to all 
its resources. With all, and everywhere, in the streets, 
at the public baths, in the porticos, at the private or pub¬ 
lic banquet, the Christians are the one absorbing topic. 
And, at least, this good comes with the evil, that thus 
the character of this religion, as compared with that ot 
Rome and other faiths, is made known to thousands 
who might otherwise never have heard of it, or have 
felt interest enough in it to examine its claims. It leads 
to a large demand for, and sale of, our sacred books. The 
copyists can hardly supply them so fast as they are 
wanted. For in the case of any dispute or conversation, 


AU RE LIAN . 


411 


it is common to hear the books themselves referred to, 
and then to be called in as witnesses for or against a 
statement made. And pleasant enough is it to see how 
clear the general voice is on our side — especially with 
the strangers—how indignant they are, for the most part, 
that violence, to the extreme of another Decian perse¬ 
cution, should be so much as dreamed of. Would ti^at 
the same could be said of our citizens and countrymen ! 
A large proportion of them indeed embrace the same 
liberal sentiments, but a greater part, if not for extreme 
violence, are yet for oppression and suppression ; and 1 
dare not say how many, for all that Aurelian himself 
designs. Among the lower orders, especially, a fero¬ 
cious and blood-thirsty spirit breaks out in a thousand 
ways that fills the bosom both with grief and terror. 

The clouds are gathering over us, Fausta, heavy and 
black with the tempest pent up within. The thunders 
are rolling in the distance, and each hour coming nearer 
and nearer. Whom the lightnings shall strike — how 
vain to conjecture ! Would to God that Julia were 
anywhere but here ! For, to you I may say it, I cannot 
trust Aurelian—yes—Aurelian himself I may ; but not 
Vurelian the tool of Fronto. Farewell. 


J4 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


LETTER IX. 

FROM nso TO FAUSTA. 

When I turned from the palace of Aurelian and again 
tooK my way towards the Coelian, 1 did it in the belie! 
tnat oefore the day should end, edicts against the Chris¬ 
tians would be published. I found, as I conversed with 
many whom I met in the way, that from other sources 
tne same opinion had become common. In one manner 
or another it had come abroad that measures had been 
resoived upon by the Emperor, and would soon be put in 
force. Many indeed do not give the least credit to the 
rumors, and believe that they all spring from the violent 
language of Fronto, which has been reported as that o! 
Auretian. You may wonder that there should be such 
uncertainty respecting a great design like this. But 
you must remember that Aurelian has of late shrouded 
nimseif in a studied obscurity. Not a despot, in the 
aespotic lands of Asia, keeps more secret counsel than 
he, or leans less upon tne opinion or advice of others. 
All that is done throughout the vast compass of the em¬ 
pire, springs from him alone — all the affairs of foreign 
and dependent kingdoms are arranged and determined 
by him. As for Italy and the capital, they are mere 
playthings in his hand. You ask if the senate does not 
still exist ? I answer, it does ; but, as a man exists 
whom a palsy has made but half alive ; the body is 
there, but the soul is gone, and even the b^dy is asleep 


A U R E L I A N . 


46 


The senators, with all becoming gravity, assemble them¬ 
selves at the capital, and what time they sleep not away 
the tedious hours in their ivory chairs, they debate sucn 
high matters as, ‘ whether the tax which this year falls 
heavy upon Capua, by reason of a blast upon the grapes, 
shall be lightened or remitted !’ or ‘ whether the petition 
of the Milanese for the construction at the public expense 
of a granary shall be answered favorably !’ or ‘ whether 
V. P. Naso shall be granted a new trial after defeat at 
the highest court !’ Not that there is not virtue in the 
senate, some dignity, some respect and love for the lib¬ 
erties of Kome—witness myself—but that the Emperor 
has engrossed the whole empire to himself, and nothing 
is left for that body but to keep alive the few remaining 
forms of ancient liberty, by assembling as formerly, and 
taking care of whatever insignificant affairs are intrust¬ 
ed to them. In a great movement like this against the 
Christians, Aurelian does not so much as recognize 
their existence. No advice is asked, no cooperation. 
And the less is he disposed to communicate with them 
in the present instance perhaps, from knowing so well 
that the measure would find no favor in their eyes ; but 
would, on the contrary, be violently opposed. Every¬ 
thing, accordingly, originates in the sovereign will of 
Aurelian, and is carried into effect by his arm wielding 
the total power of this boundless empire — being now, 
what it has been his boast to make it, coextensive with 
its extremest borders as they were in the time of the 
Antonines. There is no power to resist him ; nor are 
there many who dare to utter their real opinions, least 
of all, a senator, or a noble A beggar in the street may 
do it with better chance of its being respected, if agreeabU 


46 


A U R E L I A N. 


0 him, and of escaping rebuke or worse, if it be unpala¬ 
table. To the people, he is still, as ever, courteous and 
indulgent. 


There is throughout the city a strange silence and 
gloom, as if in expectancy of some great calamity ; or oi 
some event of dark and uncertain character. The 
Christians go about their affairs as usual, not ceasing 
from any labors, nor withdrawing from the scene of 
danger; but with firm step and serious air keep on their 
way as if conscious of the great part which it is theirs 
to act, and resolved that it shall not suffer at their 
hands. Many with whom I have spoken, put on even a 
cheerful air as they have greeted me, and after the usual 
morning’s salutation,have passed on as if things were in 
their usual train. Others with pale face and quivering 
lip confessed the inward tumult, and that, if they feared 
naught for themselves, there were those at home, help¬ 
less and exposed, for whom the heart bled, and for 
whom it could not but show signs of fear. 

I met the elder Demetrius. His manly and thought¬ 
ful countenance — though it betrayed nothing of weak¬ 
ness — was agitated with suppressed emotion. He is a 
man full of courage, but full of sensibility too. His af¬ 
fections are warm and tender as those of a girl. He 
asked me ‘ what I could inform him of the truth of the 
rumors which were now afloat of the most terrific charac¬ 
ter.’ I saw where his heart was as he spoke, and an¬ 
swered him, as you may beUeve, with pain and reluc¬ 
tance. I knew, indeed, that the whole truth would soon 
break upon him — it was a foolish weakness — but I 
could hardly bring myself to tell him what a few hours 


A U R E L I A N . 


4? 


would prooably reveal. I told him, however, all that 1 
had just learned from Aurelian himself, and which, as 
he made no reserve with regard to me, nor enjoined 
concealment, I did not doubt was fully resolved upon, 
and would be speedily put in force. As I spoke, the 
countenance of the Greek grew pale beyond its usual 
hue of paleness. He bent his head, as in perplexed and 
anxious thought ; the tears were ready to overflow as 
he raised it, after a moment, and said, 

‘ Piso, I am but recently a Christian. I know noth¬ 
ing of this religion but its beauty and truth. It is what 
I have ever longed for, and now that I possess it I value 
it far more than life. But,’ — he paused a moment — 
‘ I have jmingled but little with this people; I know 
scarcely any ; I am ignorant of what they require of 
those who belong to their number in such emergences. 
I am ready to die myself, rather than shrink from a bold 
acknowledgment of what in my heart I believe to be 
the divinest truth ; but — my wife and my children ! — 
must they too meet these dangers ? My wife has be¬ 
come what I am ; my children are but infants; a Greek 
vessel sails to-morrow for Scio, where dwells, in peace¬ 
ful security, the father of my wife, from whom I re¬ 
ceived her, almost to his distraction ; her death would 
be his immolation. Should I oflend ’ — 

‘ Surely not,’ I replied. ‘ If, as I believe will happen, 
the edicts of the Emperor should be published to-day, 
put them on board to-night, and let to-morrow see them 
floating on the Mediterranean. We are not all to stand 
still and hold our throats to the knife of this imperia. 
butcher.’ 

‘ God be thanked ! ’ said Demetrius, and grasping my 


U R I L 1 A N . 


4S 

hand with fervor turned quickly and moved in the di 
reciion of his home. 

Soon after, seated with Julia and Probus — he had 
joined me as I parted from Demetrius — I communicated 
to her all that I had heard at the palace. It neither sur¬ 
prised nor alarmed her. But she coaid not repress her 
grief at the prospect spread out before us of so much 
suffering to the innocent. 

‘ How hard is this,’ said she, ‘ to be called to bear such 
testimony as must now be borne to truth ! These Chris¬ 
tian multitudes, so many of whom have but just adopted 
their new faith and begun to taste of the pleasures it im¬ 
parts, all enjoying in such harmony and quietness their 
rich blessings — with many their only blessings — how 
hard for them, all at once, to see the foundations of their 
peace broken up, and their very lives clamored for ! 
rulers and people setting upon them as troops of wild 
beasts ! It demands almost more faith than I can boast, 
to sit here without complaint a witness of such wrong. 
How strange, Probus, that life should be made so diffi¬ 
cult ! That not a single possession worth having can 
be secured without so much either of labor or endurance ’ 
I wonder if this is ever to cease on earth ? ’ 

‘ I can hardly suppose that it will,’ said Probus. ‘ La¬ 
bor and suffering, in some of their forms, seem both es¬ 
sential. My arm would be weak as a rush were it never 
moved ; but exercised, and you see it is nervous and 
strong ; plied like a smith’s, and it grows to be hard as 
iron and capable of miracles. So it is with any faculty 
you may select; the harder it is tasked tie more worthy 
it becomes ; and without tasking at all, it is worth noth 
ing. So seems to me it is with the whole man. In i> 


A U R E L I A ]N . 


49 


smooth and even lot our worth never would be known, 
and we could respect neither ourselves nor others. Great¬ 
ness and worth come only of collision and conflict. Let 
our path be strewed with roses, and soft southern gales 
ever blow, and earth send up of her own accoid our 
ready prepared nutriment, and mankind v/ould be but 
one huge multitude of Sybarites, dissolved in sloth and 
effeminacy. If no difficulty opposed, no labor exacted, 
body and mind were dead. Hence it is, we may believe, 
that man must everywhere labor even for the food which 
is necessary to mere existence. Life is made dear to us 
by an instinct—we shrink from nothing as we do from 
the mere thought of non-existence — but still it is death 
or toil ; that is the alternative. So that labor is thus 
insured wherever man is found, and it is this that makes 
him what he is. Then he is made, moreover, so as to 
crave not only food but knowledge as much, and also 
virtue ; but between him and both these objects there 
are interposed, for the same reason doubtless, mountains 
of difficulty, which he must clamber up and over before 
he can bask in the pleasant fields that lie beyond, and 
then ascend the distant mountain-tops, from which but a 
single step removes him from the abode of God. Doubt 
it not, lady, that it is never in vain and for naught that 
man labors and suffers ; but that the good which re¬ 
dounds is in proportion to what is undergone, and more 
than a compensation. If, in these times of darkness 
and fear, suffering is more, goodness and faith are more 
also. There are Christians, and men, made by such 
trials, that are never made elsewhere nor otherwise — 
nor can be ; just as the arm of Hercules could not be 
5 VOL. II. 


50 


A U R E L 1 A M . 


but by the labors of Hercules. What says Mace: ? Why 
even this, that God is to be thanked for this danger, foi 
that the church needs it ! The brief prosperity it has 
enjoyed since the time of Valerian and Macrianus, has 
corrupted it, and it must be purged anew, and tried by 
fire ! I think not that ; but I think this ; that if suffer¬ 
ing ever so extreme is ordained, there will be a virtue 
begotten in the souls of the sufferers, and abroad througl 
them, that shall prove it not to have been in vain.’ 

‘ I can believe what you say,’ said Julia, ‘ at least ( 
can believe in the virtue ascribed to labor, and the col 
lision with difficulty. Suffering is passive ; may it not 
be that we may come to place too much merit in this ? ’ 

‘ It is not to be doubted that we may,’ replied Probus. 

The temptation to do so is great. It is easy to suffer. 
In comparison with labor and duty — life-long labor and 
duty — it is a light service. Yet it carries with it an 
imposing air, and is too apt to take to itself all the glory 
of the Christian’s course. Many who have lived as 
Christians but indifferently have, in the hour of perse¬ 
cution, and in the heat of that hour, rushed upon death 
and borne it well, and before it extremest torture, and 
gained the crown of martyrdom and the name of saint 
— a crown not always without spot — a name not al¬ 
ways honorable. He who suffers for Christ must suf¬ 
fer with simplicity — even as he has lived with sim¬ 
plicity. And when he has lived so, and endured the 
martyr’s death at last, that is to be accounted but the 
last of many acts of duty which are essentially alike — 
unless it may be that in many a previous conflict over 
temptation and the world and sin, there was a harder vie- 


A U R E L I A N. 


51 


tory v. nn, and a harder duty done, than when the flames 
consumed him, or the beasts tare him limb from limb.’ 

‘ Yet, Probus,’continued Julia, ‘among the humble 
and the ignorant, where we cannot suppose that vanity 
could operate, where men have received Christianity 
o»)ly because it seemed to them just the faith they need¬ 
ed, and who then when it has been required that they 
renounce it, will not do so, but hold steadfastly to what 
they regard the truth of God, and for it take with 
meekness and patience all manner of torture, and death 
itself—there is surely here great virtue! Suffering 
here has great worth and sets upon the soul the seal of 
God. Is it not so ? ’ 

‘ Most assuredly it is,’ answered Probus, ‘ O there is 
no virtue on earth greater than theirs ! When dragged 
from their quiet homes — unknown, obscure, despised, 
solitary, with not one pitying eye to look on upon their 
sufferings, with none to record their name, none to know 
it even — they do, nevertheless, without faltering, keep 
true to their faith, hugging it to them the closer the more 
it is tried to tear them asunder— this, this is virtue the 
greatest on earth ! It is a testimony borne to the truth 
of whatever cause is thus supported, that is daily bring¬ 
ing forth its fruits in the conviction and conversion of 
multitudes. It is said, that in the Decian persecution, it 
was the fortitude and patience under the cruelest suffer¬ 
ings of those humble Christians whom no one knew, who 
came none knew whence, and who were dying out of a 
pure inward love of the faith they professed, that fell 
upon the hearts of admiring thousands with more than 
the force of miracle, and was the cause of the great and 
sudden growth of our numbers which then took place. 


52 


A U R E L I A N . 


Still, suffering and dying for a faith is not unimpeacha¬ 
ble evidence of its truth. There have been those wdio 
have died and suffered for idolatries the most abhorred. 
It is proof, indeed, not at all of truth itself, but only of 
the deep sincerity of him who professes it.’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Julia, ‘ I see that it is so. But then it 
is a presumption in behalf of truth, strong almost as mir¬ 
acles done for it, when so many — multitudes — in dif¬ 
ferent ages, in the humblest condition of life, hesitate not 
to die rather than renounce their faith in a religion like 
this of Christianity ; which panders to not one of man’s 
passions, appetites or weaknesses, but is the severest 
censor of morals the world has ever seen ; which re¬ 
quires a virtue and a purity in its disciples such as no 
philosopher ever dared to impose upon his scholars ; 
whose only promise is immortality—and that an immor¬ 
tality never to be separated from the idea of retribution 
as making a part of it. They, who will suffer and die 
for such a religion, do by that act work as effectively for 
it, as their master by the signs and wonders which he 
did. If Christianity were like many of the forms of 
Paganism ; or if it ministered to the cravings of our 
sensual nature, as we can conceive a religion might do ; 
if it made the work of life light, and the reward certain 
and glorious ; if it relieved its followeis of much of the 
suffering, and fear, and doubt, that oppress others — ii 
would not be surprising that men should bear much fo 
its sake ; and their doing so, for what appealed so to 
their selfishness, would be no evidence, at all to be trus¬ 
ted, of its truth. But as it is, they who die for it afford 
& presumption in behalf of it, that appeals to the reason 
almost or quite with the force of demonstration. So, ] 


AURELIA N. 


53 


remeialjcr well, my reason was impressed by what I used 
to hear from Paul of the sufferings of the early Christians.’ 

While Julia had been saying these things, it had 
seemed to me as if there was an unusual commotion in 
the streets ; and as she ended I was about to look for 
the cause of it, when the hasty steps of several running 
through the hall leading from the main entrance of the 
house prevented me, and Milo breathless, followed by 
others of the household, rushed into the apartment 
where we sat, he exclaiming with every mark of fear 
and horror upon his countenance, 

‘ Ah ! sir, it is all just as I was told by Curio it would 
be ; the edicts are published on thecapitol. The people 
are going about the streets now in crowds, talking loud 
and furiously, and before night they say the Christians 
wdll all be delivered to their pleasure.’ 

Soon as Milo could pause, I asked him ‘ if he had 
read or seen the edicts ? ’ 

‘No, I have not,’ he answered; ‘I heard from Curio 
what they were to be.’ 

I told Julia and Probus that such I did not believe was 
their tenor. It did not agree with usage, nor with what 
] had gathered from Aurelian of his designs. But that 
their import was probably, at present, no more than de¬ 
privation of a portion of their freedom and of some of 
their privileges. It was the purpose of Aurelian first to 
convert back again the erring multitudes to Paganism, 
for which time must be granted. 

But my words had no effect to calm the agitation of 
our slaves, who, filled with terror at the reports of Milo, 
and at the confusion in the streets, had poured into the 
5 ^ 


VOL. II. 


54 


A U R E 1. I A JV . 


room, and were showing in a thousand ways their afTec* 
tion for us, and their concern. Some of this number are 
Christians, having been made so by the daily conversa¬ 
tions which Julia has had with them, and the instruc¬ 
tion she has given them in the gospels. Most however 
are still of that religion in which they were reared, as 
they are natives of the East, of the North, or of Africa. 
But by all, with slight differences, was the same interest 
manifested in our safety. They were ready to do any¬ 
thing for our protection ; and chiefly urgent were they 
that we should that very night escape from Rome — 
they could remain in security and defend the palace. 
When they had thus in their simple way given free 
expression to their affections, I assured them that no 
immediate danger impended, but even if it did, I should 
not fly from it, but should remain where I was ; that 
the religion for which I might suffer was worth to those 
who held it a great deal more than mere life — we 
could easily sacrifice life for it, if that should be re¬ 
quired. Some seemed to understand this — others not; 
but they then retired, silent and calm, because they saw 
that we were so. 

Soon as they were withdrawn, I proposed to Probus 
that we should go forth and learn the exact truth. We 
accordingly passed to the street, which, as it is one that 
forms tbe principal avenue from this part of the city to 
the capitol, we found alive with numbers greater than 
usual, with their faces turned toward that quarter. We 
joined them and moved with them in the same direc¬ 
tion. It was a fearful thing, Fausta, even to me, who 
am rarely disturbed by any event, to listen to the lan¬ 
guage v/hich fell on my ear on all sides from the bps oj 


A U R E L I A N . 


55 


aeings who wore the same form as myself, and with me 
have a right to the name of man. It was chiefly that 
of exultation and joy, that at length the power of the 
state was about to strike at the root of this growing 
evil — that one had taken hold of the work who would 
not leave it, as others had, half accomplished, but would 
finish it, as he had every other to which he had put hia 
hand. 

‘ Now we shall see,’ cried one, ‘ what he whose hand 
bears the sword of a true soldier can do, and whether 
Aurelian, who has slain more foes of Rome abroad than 
emperor before ever did, cannot do as well by enemies 
at home.’ 

‘ Never doubt it,’ said another. ‘ Before the ides of 
ihe month now just come in, not a Christian will be 
seen in the streets of Rome. They will be swept out 
as clean, as by Varus they now are of other filth. The 
Prefect is just the man for the times. Aurelian could 
not have been better matched.’ 

‘ Lucky this,’ said still another as he hurried away, ‘ is 
it not ? Three vessels arrived yesterday stowed thick 
with wild beasts from Africa and Asia. By the gods ! 
there will be no starving for them now. The only fear 
will be that gorged so they will lose their spirit.’ 

‘ I don’t fear that,’ said his older companion. ‘ I re¬ 
member wmll the same game twenty-five years ago. The 
fact was then that the taste of human blood whetted it 
for more and more, and, though glutted, their rage 
seemed but to become more savage still ; so that, though 
hunger was fed to the full, and more, they fell upon 
fresh victims with increased fury — with a sort of mao 
ness as it were. Such food, ’tis said, crazes them 


56 


A U R E L I A PJ . 


Others were soon next us from whom I heard, 

‘ Let every soul perisli. I care not for that , or 
rather I do. Let all die I say ; but not in this savage 
wav. Let it be done by a proper accusation, trial, and 
judgment. Let profession of atheism be death by a iaw, 
and let tlie law be executed, and the name will soon 
die. Inevitable death under a law for any one who as¬ 
sumes the name, would soon do the work of extermina¬ 
tion— better than this universal slaughter which, I 
hear, is to be the way. Thousands are then overlooked 
in the blind popular fury ; the work by and by ceases 
through weariness ; it is thought to be completed — 
when lo ! as the first fury of the storm is spent, they 
come forth from their hiding-places, and things are but 
little better than before.’ 

‘ I think with you,’ said the younger companion of 
him who had just spoken ; ‘ and besides, Romans need 
not the further instruction in the art of assassination, 
which such a service would impart. Already nothing 
comes so like nature to a Roman as to kill ; kill some¬ 
thing— if not a beast, a slave — if there is no slave at 
hand, a Christian — if no Christian, a citizen. One 
would think we sucked in from our mothers not milk 
but blood—the blood too of our Parent Wolf. If the state 
cannot stand secure, as our great men say, but by the 
destruction of this people, in the name of the gods, let 
the executioners do the work, not our sons, brothers, and 
fathers. So too, I say, touching the accursed games at 
the Flavian and elsewhere. What is the effect but to 
i-.ake of us a nation of man-butchers ? as, by the gods, 
we already are. If the gods send not something oi 


A U R E L I A N . 


57 


lomebody to mend us, we shall presently fall upon one 
another and exterminate ourselves.* 

‘ Who knows but it is this very religion of the Chris¬ 
tians that has been sent for that work ?’ said a third 
who had joined the two. ‘ The Christians are famed 
for nothing more than for their gentleness, and their 
care of one another — so, at least, I hear.’ 

‘ Who knows, indeed ?’ said the other. ‘ If it be so, 
pity it were not found out soon. Aurelian will make 
short work with them.’ 

In the midst of such conversation, which on every 
side caught our ears as we walked silently along, we 
came at length to the neighborhood of the capiiol ; but 
so great was the throng of the people, who in Rome 
have naught else to do but to rush together upon every 
piece of news, that we could not even come within sight 
of the building, much less of the parchment. 

We accordingly waited patiently to learn from some 
who might emerge from the crowd what the precise 
amount of the edicts might be. We stood not long, be¬ 
fore one struggling and pushing about at all adventures, 
red and puffing with his efforts, extricated himself from 
the mass, and adjusting his dress which was half torn 
from his back, began swearing and cursing the Emperor 
and his ministers for a parcel of women and fools. 

‘ What is it ? ’ we asked, gathering about him. ‘ What 
\ave you seen ? Did you reach the pillar ?’ 

‘Reach it? I did ; but my cloak, that cost yesterday ten 
good aurelians, did not, and here I stand cloakless —’ 

‘ Well, but the edicts.’ 

‘ Well, but the edicts ! Be not in a hurry, friend - 
they are worth not so much as my cloak. Blank parch- 


53 


A TJ Tv E L I A . 


merit were just as good. I wonder old ‘ sword-in-hand 
didn’t hang np a strip — ’twould have saved the expense 
of a scrivener. If any of you hear of a cloak found 
hereabouts, or any considerable part of one, blue without, 
lined with yellow, and trimmed with gold, please to note 
the name sewed on beneath the left shoulder, and send i 
according to the direction and your labor shall not be lost. 

‘ But the edicts — the edicts.’ 

‘ 0 the edicts ! why they are just this ; the Christiana 
are told that they must neither assemble together in their 
houses of worship to hear their priests, nor turn the 
streets into places of worship in their stead ; but leave 
off all their old ways just as fast as they can and 
worship the gods. There’s an edict for you ! ’ 

‘ Who is this ? ’ said one to Probus. 

‘ I do not know ; he seems sadly disappointed at the 
Emperor’s clemency as he deems it.’ 

But what Probus did not know, another who at the 
moment came up, did ; exclaiming, as he slapped the 
disappointed man on the shoulder, 

‘ What, old fellow, you here ? always where mischief 
IS brewing. But who ever saw you without Nero and 
Sylla ? What has happened ? and no cloak either ?’ 

‘ Nero and Sylla are in their den — for my cloak I 
fear it is in a worse place. But come, give me your 
arm, and let us return. I thought a fine business was 
opening, and so ran up to see. But it’s all a sham.’ 

‘ It’s only put off,’ said his companion, as they walked 
away ; ‘ your dogs will have enough to do before the 
month is half out — if Pronto knows anything.’ 

‘ That is one, I see,’ said he who had spoken to Pro- 
tus, ‘ who breeds hounds for the theatres — I thought I 


A U R E L I A N . 


59 


had seen him before. His ordinary stock is not Jesa 
than five hundred blood-hounds. He married the sister 
of the gladiator Sosia. His name is Hanno.’ 

Having heard enough, we turned away and sought 
again the Coelian. You thus see, Fausta, what Rome 
is made of, and into what hands we may all come. Do 
you wonder at my love of Christianity ? at my zeal for 
its progress? Unless it prosper, unless it take root and 
spread through this people, their fate is sealed, to my 
mind, with the same certainty as if I saw their doom 
written upon the midnight sky in letters of fire. Their 
own wickedness will break them in pieces and destroy 
them. It is a weight beneath which no society can 
stand. It must give way in general anarchy and ruin. 
But my trust is that, in spite of Aurelian and of all other 
power, this faith will go on its way, and so infuse itself 
into the mass as never to be dislodged, and work out its 
perfect ultimate regeneration. 

By this decree of the Emperor then, which was soon 
published in every part of the capital, the Christians are 
prohibited from assembling together for purposes of 
worship, their churches are closed, and their preachers 
silenced. 

One day intervenes between this, and the first day of 
the week, the day on which the Christians as you may 
perhaps know assemble for their worship. In the mean¬ 
time it will be determined what course shall be pursued. 

Those days have passed, Fausta, and before I seal 
my letter I will add to it an account of them. 

Immediately upon the publication of the Emperor’s de¬ 
crees, the Christians throughout the city communicated 


60 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


with each other, and resolved, their places of vvorshi] 
being all closed and guarded, to assemble secretly, iii 
some spot to be selected, both for worship and to deter¬ 
mine what was to be done, if anything, to shield them¬ 
selves from the greater evils which threatened. The place 
selected was the old ruins where the house of Macer 
stands. ‘ There still remains,’ so Macer urged, ‘ a vast 
circular apartment partly below and partly above the sur¬ 
face of the ground, of massy walls, without windows, re¬ 
mote from the streets, and so surrounded by fallen walls 
and columns as to be wholly buried from the sight. The 
entrance to it was through his dwelling, and the rooms 
beyond. Resorting thither when it should be dark, and 
seeking his house singly and by different avenues among 
the ruins, there would be little chance of observation 
and disturbance.’ Macer’s counsel was accepted. 

On the evening of the first day of the week — a day 
which since I had returned from the East to Rome had 
ever come to me laden with both pleasure and profit — 
I took my way under cover of a night without star or 
moon, and doubly dark by reason of clouds that hung 
black and low, to the appointed place of assembly. The 
cold winds of autumn were driving in fitful blasts through 
the streets, striking a chill into the soul as well as the 
body. They seemed ominous of that black and bitter 
storm that was even now beginning to break in sorrow 
and death upon the followers of Christ. Before I 
reached the ruins the rain fell in heavy drops, and the 
wind was rising and swelling into a tempest. It seemed 
to me, in the frame I was then in, better than a calm. 
It was moreover a wall of defence against such as migh< 
be disposed to track and betray us. 


A U R E L I A N 


61 


Entering by the door of Macer’s cell, I passed through 
many dark and narrow apartments, following the noise 
ol the steps of some M-ho were going before me, till at 
length I emerged into the vaulted hall spoken of by 
j\Iacer. It was lofty and spacious, and already filled 
with figures of men and women, whom the dim light of 
a few lamps, placed upon the fragments of the fallen 
architecture, just enabled me to discern and distinguish 
from the masses of marble and broken columns which 
strewed the interior, which, when they afforded a secure 
footing, were covered with the assembled worshippers. 
The footsteps of those who were the last to enter soon 
died away upon the ear, and deep silence ensued, 
unbroken by any sound save that of the sighs and weep¬ 
ing of such as could not restrain their feelings. 

It was interrupted by the voice of one who said, 

‘ That the Christians of Rome were assembled here 
by agreement to consult together concerning their affairs, 
which now, by reason of the sudden hostility of Aurelian, 
set on by the Pagan priesthood, had assumed a dark and 
threatening aspect. It was needful so to consult; that it 
might be well ascertained whether no steps could be ta¬ 
ken to ward off the impending evil, and if not, in what 
manner and to what extent we might be able to protect 
ourselves. But before this be done,’ he continued, ‘ let 
us all first with one heart seek the blessing of God. To¬ 
day, Christians, for the first time within the memory of 
the younger portion of this assembly, have we by the 
wicked power of the state been shut cut of those temples 
where we have been wont to offer up our seventh day 
worship. Here, in this deep cavern, there s none to a- 

6 VOL II. 


62 


A U R E L I A N . 


larm or interrupt. Let us give our first hour to God. Sc 
shall the da)^ not be lost, nor the enemy wholly prevail.’ 

‘ That is right,’ said another. ‘ It is what we all 
wish. Let Probus speak to us and pray for us.’ 

‘ Felix ! Felix !’ cried other voices in different parts 
of the room. 

‘ Not so, but Probus ! P/obus !’ shouted a far greater 
number. 

‘ Who does not know,’ cried a shrill voice elevated to 
its utmost pitch, ‘ that Probus is a follower of Paul of 
Samosata ?’ 

‘ And who does not know,’ responded he who had 
first spoken, ‘ that Felix follows after Plato and Plotinus? 
Pagans both ! ’ 

‘ And what,’ said the sharp voice of Macer, ‘ what if 
both be true ? who dare say that Felix is not a Chris¬ 
tian ? — who dare say that Probus is not a Christian ? 
and if they are Christians, who shall dare to say they 
may not speak to Christians ? Probus was first asked, 
and let Probus stand forth.’ 

The name of Probus was then uttered as it were by 
the whole assembly. 

As he moved toward a more central and elevated spot, 
the same mean and shrill voice that had first charged 
him, again was heard, advising that no hymn nor chant 
be sung ; ‘ the Roman watch is now abroad, and despite 
the raging of the storm their ears may catch the sound 
and the guard be upon us.’ 

‘ Let them come then !’ shouted Macer. ‘ Let them 
come ! Shall amy fear of man or of death frighten us 
away from the worship of God ? What death more glo¬ 
rious than if this moment those doors gave way and thei 


A U R E L I A N . 


63 


legions of Aurelian poured in ? Praise God and Christ, 
Cliristians, in the highest note you can raise, and let nc 
cowardice seal your lips nor abate your breath.’ 

The v’^oice of Prohus, now heard in prayer, brought a 
deep silence upon the assembly, and I would fain be¬ 
lieve, harmony and peace also into the spirits of all who 
were there. It was a service deeply moving and greatly 
comforting. Whatever any who were present might 
have thought of the principles of Probus, all must have 
been penetrated and healed by that devout and benevo¬ 
lent temper that was so manifest in the sentiments hs 
uttered, and in the very tones of his voice. 

No sooner had he ended his prayer than the voice of 
Macer broke forth, commencing a chant commonly heard 
in the churches and with which all were familiar. His 
voice, 'ouder than that of the storm and shriller than 
the blast of a war-trumpet, rang through the vast apart 
ment, and inspiring all who were there with the same 
courage that possessed himself, their voices were in¬ 
stinctively soon joined with his, and the hymn swelled 
upward with a burst of harmony that seemed as if it 
might reach Heaven itself. Kome and its legions were 
then as if they did not exist. God only was present to 
the mind, and the thoughts with which that hymn filled 
it. Its burden was like this ; 

‘ O God almighty, God of Christ our Lord, arise and 
defend thy people. The terrors of death are around us 
the enemies of truth and thy Son assail us, and we faint 
and are afraid. Their hosts are encamped against us ; 
they are ready to devour us. Our hope is in thee : 
Strengthen and deliver us. Arise. O God, and visit ’as 
with thy salvation.’ 


64 


A U R E L I A N. 


These, and words like them, repeated with importa^ 
nity and dwelt upon, the whole soul pouring itself out 
with the notes, while tears ran down the cheeks of those 
who sang—the sign not of weakness but of the strength 
of those affections which bound their hearts to God, to 
Christ, and to one another — it seemed as if such words 
and so uttered could not but draw a blessing down. As 
the hymn drew to a close and the sounds died away, 
deep silence again fell upon the assembly. The heart 
had been relieved by the service ; the soul had been 
rapt and borne quite away ; and by a common feeling 
an interval of rest ensued, which by each seemed to be 
devoted to meditation and prayer. This, when it had 
lasted till the wants of each had been satisfied, was bro¬ 
ken by the voice of Probus. 

What he said was wonderfully adapted to infuse fresh 
courage into every heart, and especially to cheer and 
•support the desponding and the timid. He held up be¬ 
fore them the great examples of those who, in the earlier 
ages of the church, had offered themselves as sacrifices 
upon the same altar upon which the great head of the 
Christians had laid down his life. He made it apparent 
how it had ever been through suffering of some kind on 
the part of some, that great benefits had been conferred 
upon mankind ; that they who would be benefactors of 
their race must be willing cheerfully to bear the evil and 
suffering that in so great part constitutes that office ; and 
was it not a small thing to suffer, and that in the body 
only, and but for a moment, if by such means great and 
permanent blessings to the souls of men might be se¬ 
cured, and remotest ages of the world made to rejoice 
and flourish through the effects of their labors ? Every 


A U R E L I A N . 


65 


day of their worship they were accustomed to hear sung 
or recited the praises of those who had died for Chris, 
and truth ; men of whom the world was not worthy, and 
who, beautiful with the crown of martyrdom, were now 
of that glorious company who, in the presence of God, 
were chanting the praises of God and the Lamb. Who 
was not ready to die, if it were so ordained, if by such 
death truth could be transmitted to other ages ? What 
was it to die to-day rather than to-morrow — for that 
was all—or this year rather than the next, if one’s death 
could be made subservient to the great cause of Christ 
and his gospel ? What was it to die by the sword of a 
Roman executioner, or even to be torn by wild beasts, if 
by suffering so the soul became allied to reformers and 
benefactors of all ages ? And besides, what evil after 
all was it in the power of their enemies to inflict ? They 
could do no more than torment and destroy the body. 
They could not touch nor harm the soul. By the in¬ 
fliction of death itself they did but hasten the moment 
when they should stand clothed in shining garments in 
the presence of the Father. ‘ The time has come, Chris 
tians,’ he then said, ‘ when, in the providence of God, 
you are called upon to be witnesses of the faith which 
you profess in Christ. After many j^ears of calm, a 
st('rm has arisen, which begins already to be felt in the 
violence with which it beats upon our heads. Almost 
ever since the reign of Decius have we possessed our 
borders in quietness. Especially under Gallienus and 
Claudius, and during these nearly four years of Aurelian, 
have we enjoyed our faith and our worship with none 
to alarm or oppress us. The laws of the empire have 

6* VOL. II. 


G6 


A U R E L I A N . 


been as a wa 1 4 f defence between us and the fierce and 
bloody spirit of Pagan superstition. They who would 
have willingly assailed and destroyed us have been forci 
bly restrained by wise and merciful enactments. During 
this season of repose our numbers have increased, we 
have been prosperous and happy. Our churches have 
multiplied, and all the signs of an outward prosperity 
have been visible in all parts of this vast empire. Would 
to God I could say that while numbers and wealth have 
been added to the church, it had grown in grace and in the 
practice of the virtues of the gospel in the same proportion! 
But I cannot. The simplicity and purity of the first ages 
are no longer to be seen among us. We no longer 
emulate the early apostles and make them our patterns. 
We rather turn to the Pagan and Jewish priesthood, and 
in all that pertains to the forms of our worship mould 
ourselves upon them ; and in all that pertains to opinion 
and doctrine we turn to the philosophers, and engraft, 
whatever of their mysteries and subtleties we can, upon 
the plain and simple truth of Jesus. We have departed 
far, very far, from the gospel standard, both in practice 
and in faith. We need, Christians, to be brought back. 
We have gone astray — we have almost worshipped 
other gods, — it is needful that we return in season to 
our true allegiance. I dare not say, Christians, that 
the calamity which now impends is a judgment of God 
upon our corruptions ; we know not what events are of 
a judicial character, they have upon them no signature 
which marks them as such ; but this we may say, that 
It will be no calamity, but a benefit and a blessing rather, 
if it have the effect to show us our errors, and cause us 
10 retrace our steps. Aurehan, enemy though we call 


A U R E LI A N . 


67 


him, may prove our benefactor ; he may scourge us, 
but the sufferings he inflicts may bring healing along 
with them, being that very medicine which the sick soul 
needs. Let us meet then this new and heavy trial as a 
part of the providence of God, as a part of that mysteri¬ 
ous plan — the lines of which are in so great part hidden 
from our eyes — by which he educates his children, and 
at the same time, and by the same means, prepares and 
transmits to future generations the richest blessings. If 
we, Christians, suffer for the cause of truth, if our blood 
is poured out like water, let us remember that it serves 
to fertilize that soil out of which divine nutriment shall 
grow for generations yet unborn, whom it shall nourish 
up unto a better life. Let your hearts then be strong 
within you ; faint not, nor fear ; God will be with you 
and his Spirit comfort you. 

‘ But why do I say these things ? Why do I exhort 
you to courage ? For when was it known that the fol¬ 
lowers of Christ shrunk from the path of duty, though 
it were evidently the path of death ? When and in 
what age have those been wanting who should bear wit¬ 
ness to the truth, and seal it with their blood ? There 
have been those who in time of persecution have fallen 
away — but for one apostate there have been a thousand 
martyrs. We have been, I may rather affirm, too 
prodigal of life — too lavish of our blood. There has 
been, in former ages, not only a willingness, a readiness 
to die for Christ, but an eagerness. Christians have 
not waited to be searched for and found by the ministers 
of Roman power ; they have thrust themselves forward ; 
they have gone up of their own accord to the tribunal 
and proclaimed their faith, and invited the death a* 


6S 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


which nature trembles and revolts. But shall we 
blame this divine ardor ? this more than human con¬ 
tempt of suffering and death ? this burning zeal for the 
great cause of our Master ? Let us rather nonor and 
revere it as a temper truly divine and of more than 
mortal force. But let us be just to all. While we 
honor the courage and self-sacrificing love of so many^ 
let us not require that all should be such, nor cast sus¬ 
picion upon those who — loving Christ not less in their 
hearts — shrink from the sufferings in which others 
glory. Ye need not, Christian men and women, your¬ 
selves rush to the tribunal of Varus, ere you can feel 
that you are Christ’s indeed. It is not needful that to 
be a Christian you must also be a martyr. Ye need 
not, ye ought not, impatiently seek for the rack and the 
cross. It is enough if, w'hen sought and found and ar¬ 
raigned, you be found faithful; if then you deny not 
nor renounce your Lord, but glory in your name, anu 
with your dying breath shout it forth as that for which 
you gladly encounter torture and death. Go not forth 
then seeking the martyr’s crown ! Wait till you are 
called. God knoweth, and he alone, whom he would 
have to glorify him by that death which is so much 
more to be coveted than life. Leave all in the hand of 
Providence. You that are not chosen, fear not that, 
though later, the gates of Heaven shall not be thrown 
open for you. Many are the paths that lead to those 
gates. Besides, shall a’l rush upon certain death? 
Were all martyrs, where then were the seed of the 
church ? They who live, and by their life, consecrate to 
holiness and God, show that they are his, do no less foi 
their Master and his cause than do they who die foi 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


69 


l)iat cause. Nay,’t is easier to die well than to live 
well. The cross which we bear through a long life ol 
iaithful service, is a heavier one than that which we 
bear as we go up our Calvary. Leave all then, Chris¬ 
tian men and women, in the hands of God. Seek not 
death nor life. Shun not life nor death. Say each, 
“ Here, Lord, is thy servant, do with him as shall seem 
to thee good.” 

‘ And now, Christians, how shall we receive the edict of 
Aurelian ? It silences our preachers, it closes our church¬ 
es. What now is the duty of the Christians of Kome ? ’ 

Soon as this question was proposed by Probus, many 
voices from various parts of the room gave in their judg¬ 
ments. At first, the opinions expressed differed on many 
points : but as the discussion was prolonged the differ¬ 
ence grew less and less, till unanimity seemed to be 
attained. It was agreed at length, that it was right to 
conform to the edict so far as this : ‘ That they would 
not preach openly in the streets nor elsew^here ; they 
would, at first, and scrupulously, conform to the edict in 
its letter and spirit— until they had seen what could be 
done by appeals both to the Emperor and the senate ; 
but, maintaining at the same time, that if their appeals 
were vain, if their churches were not restored to them 
with liberty to assemble in them as formerly and for the 
some purposes — then they would take the freedom that 
was not granted, and use it as before, and abide by the 
issue ; no power of man should close their mouths as 
ambassadors of God, as followers of Christ and through 
him reformers of the wmrld ; they would speak*—they 
would preach and pray, though death were the imme 
diate reward.’ 


70 


A U R E L : A N . 


In this determination I heartily agreed as both mode¬ 
rate and yet firm ; as showing respect for the powers tha* 
are over us, and at the same time asserting our own 
rights, and declaring our puspose to stand by them. But 
so thought not all. For no sooner was the opinion of 
the assembly declared than Macer broke forth : 

‘ I have heard,’ said he, ‘ the judgment which has 
been pronounced. But I like it not — I agree not to it. 
Shall the minister of Christ, the ambassador of God, a 
messenger from Heaven to earth, hold his peace at the 
behest of a man, though he be an emperor, or of ten 
thousand men, were all emperors ? Not though every 
Christian in Rome subscribed to this judgment, not 
though every Christian in the world assented to it, 
would I. Is Christ to receive laws of Aurelian ? Is 
the cause of God and truth to be postponed to that of the 
empire ? and posterity to die of hunger because we refuse 
to till the earth ? We are God’s spiritual husbandmen 
— the heart of Rome is our field of labor — it is already 
the eleventh hour—the last days are at hand — and 
shall we forbear our toil ? shall we withdraw our hand 
from the plough ? shall we cease to proclaim the glad 
tidings of salvation because the doors of our churches 
are closed ? Not so, Christians, by the blessing of God, 
shall it be with me. While the streets of Rome and 
her door-stones will serve me for church and pulpit, and 
while my tongue is left unwrenched from my mouth, 
will I not cease to declare Jesus Christ and him cruci¬ 
fied ! Think you Aurelian will abate his wrath or 
change his purposes of death, for all your humble sue 
mg ? that cringing and fawning will turn aside the mes¬ 
sengers of death Believe it rot. Ye know not Au- 


A U R E L I A N . 


71 


relian. More would ye gain with him, did the faith of 
the peace-loving Jesus allow it, if ye went forth in battle 
array and disputed this‘great question in the streets of 
Rome sword in hand ! More would ye gain now, if ye 
sent a word of defiancedenying his right to interpose 
between God and his people — between Christ and his 
church — and daring him to do his worst, than by this 
tame surrender of your rights— this almost base denial 
of your Master. No sooner shall to-morrow’s sun have 
risen, than on the very steps of the capitol will I preach 
Christ, and hurl the damnation of God upon this bloody 
Emperor and his bloody people.’ 

‘ 0 , Macer, Macer ! cease, cease ! ’ cried a woman s 
voice from the crowd. ‘ You know not what you say ! 
Already have your harsh words put new bitterness into 
Aurelian’s heart. Forbear, as you love Christ and us.’ 

‘ Woman — ’ replied Macer, ‘ for such your voice de¬ 
clares you to be — I do love both Christ and you, and it 
is because I love you that I aim to set aside this faith¬ 
less judgment of the Roman Christians. But when I 
say I love you and the believers in Rome, I mean your 
souls, not your bodies. I love not your safety, nor your 
peace, nor your outward comforts ; your houses, nor 
your wealth, nor your children, nor your lives, nor any¬ 
thing that is yours which the eye can see or the hands 
handle. I love your souls, and, beside them, nothing. 
And while it is them I love, and for them am bound in 
the spirit as a minister of Christ, I may not hold my peace, 
nor hide myself, for that there is a lion in the path ! As 
a soldier of the cross I will never flee. Though at the 
last day I hear no other word of praise from Him the 
judge— and no other shall I hear, for my Pagan sins 


72 


A U K E L I A N . 


weigh me down — down — help, Lord ! or T perish !— 
Macer’s voice here took the tone of deepest agony he 
seemed for a time wholly lost, standing stiU, with out¬ 
stretched arms and uplifted eye. After a long pause he 
suddenly resumed. ‘ What did I say ? — It was this : 
though I hear no other word of praise from my judge as 
I stand at his judgment-seat, I trust I shall hear this, that 
I did not flee nor hide myself, that I was no coward, but 
a bold and fearless soldier of the cross, ready at anytime 
and at all limes to suffer for the souls of my brethren.’ 

‘ Think not, Macer,’ said Probus, ‘ that we shrink at 
the prospect of danger. But we would be not only bold 
and unshrinking, but wise and prudent. There is more 
than one virtue goes to make the Christian man. We 
think it right and wise first to appeal to the Emperor’s 
love of justice. We think it might redound greatly to 
our advantage if we could obtain a public hearing before 
Aurelian, so that from one of our own side he, with all 
the nobility of Rome, might hear the truth in Christ, 
and then judge whether to believe so was hurtful to the 
state, or deserving of torture and death.’ 

‘ As well, Probus,’ replied Macer, ‘ might you preach 
the faith of Christ in the ear of the adder ! to the very 
stones of the highways ! Aurelian turn from a settled 
purpose ! ha ! ha ! you have not served, Probus, under 
him in Gaul and Asia as others have. Never did the 
arguments of his legions and his great officers on the 
other side, serve but to intrench him the more impreg- 
nably in his own. He knows not what the word change 
means. But were this possible, and of good hope, it 
shows not that plain and straight path to which my spirit 
points, and which therefore I must travel. Is it right to 


A U R E L I A N . 


7.‘J 

liearken to man rather than God ? That to me is trie 
only question. Shall Aurelian silence the ambassador 
of God and Christ ? Shall man wrestle and dispute ii 
with the Almighty ? God, or Aurelian, which shal 
be ? To me, Christians, it would be a crime of deeper 
dye than the errors of my Pagan youth, did I chain mv 
tongue, were it but for an hour, at the command of Au¬ 
relian. I have a light within, and it is that I must obev. 
I reason not — I weigh not probabilities — I balance not 
argument against argument — I feel ! and that I take to 
be the instinct of God—the inspiration of his holy Spirit 
—and as I feel so am I bound to act.’ 

It was felt to be useless to reason with this impetuous 
and self-willed man. He must be left to work oui his 
own path through the surrounding perils, and bear what¬ 
ever evil his violent rashness might draw upon his head. 
Yet his are those extreme and violent opinions and feel¬ 
ings which are so apt to carry away the multitude, and 
it was easy to see that a large proportion of the asserablv 
went with him. Another occasion was given for their 
expression. 

When it had been determined that the edicts should 
be observed so far as to refrain from all public preaching 
and all assembling together, till the Emperor had been 
first appealed to, it then became a question in what man¬ 
ner he should be approached, and by whom, in behalf 
of the whole body. And no sooner had Macer ceased, 
than the same voice which had first brought those char¬ 
ges against Probus was again heard—the voice as 1 have 
since learned of a friend of Felix, and an exorcist. 

< If it be now determined,’ said the voice, ‘ that we ap 

VOL. . 


74 


A U R E L I A N. 


peal to tne clemency of the Emperor in order to avert 
Horn our heaas tne evil that seems to be more than 
inreatenea, let ii be clone by some one who in his faith 
may njy represent the great body of Christ’s followers. 
Wheiner the Emperor shall feel well inclined toward us 
or not, will it not greatly depend upon the manner in 
wnicn the truth in Christ shall be set forth, and whether 
by means of the principles and doctrines that shall be 
shown to belong to it and constitute it, it shall be judged 
by him to be of hurtful or beneficial tendency ? Now it 
IS well known to all how variously Christ is received 
and interpreted in Rome. As received by some, his 
gospel is one thing ; as received by others, it is another 
arid quiie a different thing. Who can doubt that our 
prospect of a favorable hearing with Aurelian will be ar\ 
encouraging one in the proportion that he shall perceive 
our opinions to agree with those which have already 
been aavanced in the schools of philosophy — especially 
in tnat of the divine Plato. This agreement and almost 
iueniity has, ever since the time of Justin, been pointed 
oui ana learnedly defended. They who perceive this 
agreement, and rest in it as their faith, now constitute 
tne greater part of the Christian vvorld. Let him then 
wno is to bespeak for us the Emperor’s good-will be, as 
in good sooth he ought to be, of these opinions. As to 
the declaration that has been made that one is as much 
a Christian as another, whatever the difference of faith 
may be, I cannot receive it; and he who made the decla¬ 
ration, I doubt would scarce abide by it, since as I learn 
he is a worshipper and follower of that false-hearted 
interloper Novatian. The puritans least of all are apt to 
regard with favor those who hold not with them. Let 


A U R E L I A N . 


75 


Felix then, who, if any now living in Rome may stand 
forward as a specimen of what Christ’s religion is in 
both its doctrine and its life — let Felix plead our cause 
with Aurelian.’ 

The same difference of feeling and opinion manifested 
itself as before. Many voices immediately cried out, 
‘ Yes, yes, Felix, let Felix speak for us.’ While others 
from every part of the room were heard shouting out, 
‘ Probus, Probus, let Probus be our advocate ! ’ 

At length the confusion subsided as a single voice 
made itself heard above the others and caught their at¬ 
tention, saying, 

‘ If Felix, 0 Christians, as has just been affirmed, 
represents the opinions which are now most popular in 
the Christian world, at least here in Rome, Probus rep¬ 
resents those which are more ancient—’ He was in¬ 
stantly interrupted. 

‘ How long ago,’ cried another, ‘ lived Paul of Sa- 
mosata ? ’ 

‘ When died the heretic Sabellius ?’ added still ano¬ 
ther. 

‘ Or Praxeas ?’ said a third, ‘ or Theodotos ? or Ar- 
temon ?’ 

‘ These,’ replied the first, soon as he could find room 
for utterance—‘ these are indeed not of the earliest age, 
but they from whom they learned their faith are of that 
age, namely, the apostles and the great master of all.’ 

‘ Heresy,’ cried out one who had spoken before, ‘ al¬ 
ways dates from the oldest ; it never has less age nor 
authority than that of Christ.’ 

‘ Christians ! Christians ! ’ Macer’s stentorian voice 
was now hearrl towering above thf< tumult, ‘ what is it 


yr would have ? What are these distinctions abou 
which ye dispute ? What have the;y to do with the mat' 
ter now in hand ? How would one doctrine or the other 
in such matters weigh w^th Aurelian more than straws 
or feathers ? But if these are stark naught, and less 
than naught, there are other questions pertinent to the 
time, nay, which the time forces upon us, and about 
which we should be well agreed. A new age of perse¬ 
cution has arisen, and the church is about to be sifted, 
and the 'wheat separated from the chaff—the first to be 
gathered into the garners of God, the last to be burnt 
up in fire unquenchable. Now is it to be proved who 
are Christ’s, and who are not — who will follow him 
bearing their cross to some new Calvary, and who, 
saving their lives, shall yet lose them. Who knows not 
the evil that, in the time of Decius, yes, and before and 
since too, fell upon the church from the so easy recep¬ 
tion and restoration of those who, in an hour of \veak- 
ness and fear, denied their master and his faith, and 
bowed the knee to the gods of Rome ? Here is the dan¬ 
ger against which we are to guard; from this quarter— 
not from any other of vain jargon concerning natures, 
essences, and modes of being — are we to look for those 
fatal inroads to be made upon the purity of the gospel, 
that cannot but draw along with them corruption and 
ruin. Of what stuff will the church then be made,w'hen 
they who are its ministers, deacons and bishops, shall be 
such as, when danger showed itself, relapsed into idola¬ 
try, and, soon as the clouds had drifted by, and the 
winds blew soft, came forth again into the calm sun- 
snine, renounced their idolatry, and again professing 
Christ, were received to the arms of the church, and 


A U RE LI AN. 


r, 


even to the communion of the body and blood of our 
Lord ? Christians, the I’reat Novatian is tie to whom 
we owe what purity the church yet retains, and it is ir- 
allegiance to him —’ 

‘ The great Novatian ! ’ exclaimed a priest of the Ho¬ 
man church, ‘great only in his infamy! himself an 
apostate once, he sought afterwards, having been r<^- 
ceived himself back again to the church upon his repen¬ 
tance, to bury his shame under a show of zeal against 
such as were guilty of the same offence. His own 
weakness or sin, instead of teaching him compassion, 
served but to harden his heart. Is this the man to 
whose principles we are to pledge ourselves ? Were 
his principles sound in themselves, we could hardly take 
them from such a source. But they are false. They 
are in the face of the spirit and letter of the gospel. 
What is the character of the religion of Christ, if it be 
not mercy ? Yet this great Novatian, to those who like 
Peter have fallen—Peter whom his master received and 
forgave — denies all mercy ! and for one offence, how¬ 
ever penitence may wring the soul, cuts them off' for¬ 
ever like a rotten branch from the body of Christ ! is 
this the teacher whose follower should appeal for us to 
the Koman Emperor V 

‘ I seek not,’ Macer began to say, ‘ to defend the bisli- 
op of Rome—’ 

‘ Bishop !’ cried the other, ‘ bishop ! who ever heard 
that Novatian was bishop of Rome ? But who has not 
heard that that wicked and ambitious man through envy 
of Cornelius, and resolved to supplant him, caused him¬ 
self to be ordained bishop by a few of that order, wea^ 

7* VOL. 11. 


>^8 


AU R E LI A N . 


and corrupt men, whom he bribed to the bad work, but 
wno, corrupt as they were, and bribed as they were, it 
was first needfui to make drunk before conscience 
would allow them by such act eternally to disgrace 
themselves and the church —’ 

• Lies ana slanders all,’ cried Macer and others with 
him, m the same breath and with their utmost voice. 
The greatest confusion prevailed. A thousand contra¬ 
dictory cries were heard. In the midst of the uproar 
the name of Macer was proclaimed by many as that of 
one who would best assert and defend the Christian 
cause before Aurelian. But these were soon overborne 
and silenced by a greater number, who now again call¬ 
ed upon Probus to fill that office. 

Probus seemed not sorry that, his name being thus 
tumultuously called out, he had it again in his power 
to speak to the assembly. Making a sign accordingly 
that he would be heard, he said, 

‘ That he coveted not the honorable offi.ce of appeal¬ 
ing for them to the Emperor of Rome. It would confer 
more happiness a thousand fold, Christians, if I could by 
any words of rnine put harmony and peace into your 
hearts, than if I might even convert a Roman emperor. 
What a scene of confusion and discord is this, at such 
an hour, when, if ever, our hearts should be drawn clo¬ 
ser together by this exposure to a common calamity. 
Why is it that when at home, or moving abroad in the 
business of life, your conversation so well becomes your 
name and faith, drawing upon you even the commen¬ 
dation of your Pagan foes, you no sooner assemble to¬ 
gether, as now, than division and quarrel ensue, in such 
measure, as among our Heathen opponents is never 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


71i 


seen ? Why is it, Christians, that when you are so rea¬ 
dy to die for Christ, you will not live at peace for him ? 
Honor you not him more by showing that you are ol 
his spirit, that for his name’s sake you are willing to 
bear patiently whatever reproach may be laid upon you, 
than you do even by suffering and dying for him ? 
The questions you have here agitated are not for this 
hour and place. What now does it signify whether 
one be a follower of Paul, of Origen, of Sabellius, or 
Novatian, when we are each and all so shortly to be 
called upon to confess our allegiance to neither of these 
— but to a greater, even Jesus, the master and head ot 
us all ! And what has our preference for some of the 
doctrines of either of these to do with our higher love 
of Christ and his truth ? By such preference is our su¬ 
perior and supreme regard for Jesus and his word vitia¬ 
ted or invalidated ? Nay, what is it we then do when 
we embrace the peculiar doctrine of some great or good 
man, who has gone before, but embrace that which in a 
peculiar sense we regard as the doctrine of Christ ? 
We receive the peculiar doctrine of Paul, or Justin, or 
Origen, not because it is theirs, but because we think 
they have shown it to be eminently the doctrine of 
Christ. In binding upon us then the dogmas of any 
teacher, we ought not to be treated other than as those 
who, in doing so, are seeking to do the highest honor, 
not to such teacher, but to Christ. I am charged as a 
disciple of the bishop of Antioch, and the honored Fe¬ 
lix as a disciple of Plato. If I honor Paul of Samosala, 
Christians, for any of his truth, it is because I deem 
him to have discerned clearly the truth as it is in Jesus. 
My faith is not in him, but in Jesus. And if Felii 


so 


AT R E L 1 A N . 


honor Plato or Plotinus, it is but because in them he be¬ 
holds some clearer unfolding — clearer than elsewhere 
— of the truth in Christ. Are not we then, and all 
who do the same thing, to be esteemed as those who 
honor Christ ? not deny nor forsake him. And as we 
all hold in especial reverence some one or another of a 
former age through whom as a second master we re¬ 
ceive the doctrines of the gospel, ought we not all to 
love and honor one another, seeing that in the same 
way we all love and honor Christ ? Let iove, Chris¬ 
tians, mutual honor and love, be the badge of our disci- 
pleship, as it was in the first age of the church. Soon, 
very soon, will you be called to bear testimony to the 
cause you have espoused, and perhaps seal it with your 
blood. Be not less ready to show your love to those a* 
round you by the promptness with which you lend you* 
sympathy, or counsel, or aid, as this new flood of adver¬ 
sity flows in upon them. But why do I exhort you ? 
The thousand acts of kindness, of charity, of brotherly 
love, which flow outwards from you in a perpetual 
stream toward Heathen not less than Christian, and 
have drawn upon you the admiration even of the Pagan 
world, is sufficient assurance that your hearts will not 
be cold when the necessities of this heavier time shall 
lay upon you their claims. It is only in the public as¬ 
sembly, and in the ardor of debate, that love seems cold 
and dead. Forget then, now and tomorrow, that you. 
are followers of any other than Christ. Forget that 
you call yourselves after one teacher or another, and re 
member only that you are brethren, members of one. 
family, of the same household of faith, owning on 
master, worshipping one and the same God and Fathe 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


SJ 


of US all. And now, Christians, if you would ralhei 
that Felix should defend you before Aurelian, I would 
also. There is none among us who loves Christ more 
or better than he, or would more readily lay down his 
life for his sake.’ 

Felix however joined with all the others—for all now, 
after these few words of Probus, seemed of one opinion 
— in desiring that Probus should appear for the Chris¬ 
tians before the Emperor ; which he then consented to 
do. Harmony was once more restored. The differ¬ 
ences of opinion, which separated them, seemed to be 
forgotten, and they mingled as friends and fellow-labor¬ 
ers in the great cause of truth. They who had been 
harshest in the debate—which was at much greater 
length, and conducted with much more vehemence than 
as I have described it — were among the most forward 
to meet with urbanity those who were in faith the most 
distantly removed from them. A long and friendly in¬ 
terview then took place, in which each communed with 
each, and by words of faith or affection helped to supply 
the strength which all needed for the approaching con¬ 
flict. One saw no longer and heard no longer the en¬ 
thusiastic disputant more bent upon victory than truth, 
and heedless of the wounds he gave to the heart, provi¬ 
ded he convinced the head or silenced the tongue, but 
instead, those who now appeared no other than a com¬ 
pany of neighbors and friends engaged in the promotion 
of some common object of overwhelming interest. 

When in this manner and for a considerable space of 
time a fit offering had been laid upon the altar of love, 
the whole assembly again joined together in acts of 
prayer, and again lifted up their voices in songs of 


82 


A U R E L I A N . 


praise. This duty being performed,, we separated and 
sought the streets. The storm which had begun in vio¬ 
lence, had increased, and it was with diiliculty that beset 
by darkness, wind, and rain, I succeeded without injury 
iu finding my way to the Coelian. 

Julia was waiting for me with anxious impatience. 

After relating to her the events of the evening, she 
said, 

‘ How strange, Lucius, the conduct of such men at 
such a time ! How could Christians, with the Chris¬ 
tian’s faith in their hearts, so lose the possession of 
themselves — and so violate all that they profess as fol¬ 
lowers of Jesus ! I confess, if this be the manner in 
which Christianity is intended to operate upon the char¬ 
acter, I am as yet wholly ignorant of it, and desire ever 
to remain so. But it is not possible that they are right. 
Nay, they seem in some sort to have acknowledged 
themselves to have been in the wrong by the last acts 
of the meeting. This brings to my mind what Paul 
has often told me of the Christians of the same kind, at 
which I was then amazed, but had forgotten. I do not 
comprehend it. I have read and studied the character 
and the teachings of Jesus, and it seems to me I have 
arrived at some true understanding—for surely there 
is little difficulty in doing so — of what he himself was, 
and of what he wished his followers to be. Would he 
have recognized his likeness in those of whom you 
have now told me?’ 

‘ Yet,’ I replied, ‘ there was more of it there in those 
very persons than at first we might be inclined to think; 
and in the great multitude of those who were present, it 
may have been all there, and was in most, I cannot 


A U R E L I A N . 


83 


doubt. We ought not to judge of this community by 
the leaders of the several divisions which compose it. 
They are by no means just specimens, from which tc 
infer the character of all. They are but too often rest¬ 
less, ambitious, selfish men ; seeking their own aggran¬ 
dizement and their party’s, rather than the glory of 
Christ and his truth. I can conceive of a reception of 
Christian precept and of the Christian spirit being but 
little more perfect and complete, than I have found it a- 
mong the humbler sort of the Christians of Rome. A- 
mong them there is to be seen nothing of the temper of 
violence and bigotry that was visible this evening in the 
language of so many. They, for the most part, place 
the religion of Jesus in holy living, in love of one ano¬ 
ther, and patient waiting for the kingdom of God. And 
their lives are seen to accord with these great principles 
of action. Even for their leaders, who are in so many 
points so different from them, this may be said in expla¬ 
nation and excuse — that from studying the record more 
than the common people, they come to consider more 
narrowly in what the religion of Jesus consists, and ar¬ 
riving, after much labor, at what they believe in their 
hearts to be the precise truth — truth the most vital of 
any to the power and success of the gospel — this en¬ 
grosses all their affections, and prompts all their labor 
and zeal. In the dissemination of this do they alone 
behold the dissemination of Christianity itself—this 
being denied or rejected, the gospel itself is. With 
such notions as fundamental principles of action, it is 
easy to see with what sincere and virtuous indignation 
they would be filled toward such as should set at nought 
and oppose that, which they cherish as the very centra. 


84 


A U R E L I A N. 


fflory and peculiarity of Christianity. These things be 
ing so, I can pity and forgive a great deal of w'hat ap’ 
pears to be, and is, so opposite to the true Christian teni 
per, on account of its origin and cause. Especially as 
these very persons, who are so impetuous, and truculent 
almost, as partizans and advocates, are, as private Chris* 
tians, examples perhaps of extraordinary virtue. We 
certainly know this to be the case with Macer. An 
apostle was never more conscientious nor more pure. 
Yet would he, had he power equal to his will, drive 
from the church all who bowed not the knee to his idol 
Novatian.’ 

‘ But how,’ asked Julia, ‘ would that agree with the 
offence he justly took at those who quareled with Pro¬ 
bus and Felix on account of their doctrine ?’ 

‘ There certainly would be in such conduct no agree¬ 
ment nor consistency. It only shows how easy it is to 
see a fault in another, to which we are stone-blind in 
ourselves. In the faith or errors of Probus and Felix 
he thought there was nothing that should injure ♦dieir 
Christian name, or unfit them for any office. Yet in 
the same breath he condemned as almost the worst ene¬ 
mies of Christ such as refused honor and adherence to 
the severe and inhuman code of his master Novatian.’ 

‘ But how far removed, Lucius, is all this from the 
spirit of the religion of Jesus ! Allowing all the force 
of the apologies you may offer, is it not a singular state 
for the minds and tempers of those to have arrived at, 
who profess before the world to have formed themselves 
after the doctrine, and, what is more, after the character 
of Christ ? I cannot understand the process by which 
it has been done, nor how it is that, without bringing 


AU R E LI A N. 


8d 

Gpon themselves public shame and reproach, such men 
can stand forth and proclaim themselves not only Chris¬ 
tians, but Christian leaders and ministers.’ 

‘ I can understand it, I confess, quite as little. But I 
cannot doubt that as Christianity outgrows its infancy, 
especially when the great body of those who profess it 
shall have been formed by it from their youth, and shall 
not be composed, as now, of those who have been 
brought over from the opposite and uncongenial regions 
of Paganism, with much of their former character still 
adhering to them, Christians will then be what they 
ought to be who make the life and character of Jesns 
their standard. Nothing is learned so slowly by man¬ 
kind as those lessons which enforce mutual love and re¬ 
spect, in which the gospels so abound. We must allow 
not only years, but hundreds of years, for these lesson' 
to be imprinted upon the general heart of men, and lO 
be seer in all their character and intercourse. But 
when a few hundred years shall have elapsed, and that 
is a long allowance for this education to be perfected in, 
I can conceive that the times of the primitive peace and 
love shall be more than restored, and that such re¬ 
proaches as to-night were heard lavished upon one and 
another will be deemed as little compatible with a Chris¬ 
tian profession as would be violence and war. All vio¬ 
lence and wrong must cease, as this religion is received, 
and the ancient superstitions and idolatries die out.’ 

‘ What a privilege, to be born and live,’ said Julia, ‘ in 
those fast approaching years, when Christianity shall 
alone be received as the religion of this large empire 
when Paganism shall have become extinct in Rome 

8 VOL. II. 


86 


A U R E L I A N 


war and slavery shall cease, and all our people shall be. 
actuated by the same great principles of faith and virtue 
that governed both Christ and his apostles ! A few cen¬ 
turies will witness more and better than we now dream 
of.’ 

So we pleased ourselves with visions of future peace 
and happiness, which Christianity was to convert to re¬ 
ality. To me they are no longer mere visions, but as 
much realities to be experienced, as the future towering 
oak is, when I look upon an acorn planted, or as the fu¬ 
ture man is, when I look upon a little child. If Chris¬ 
tianity grows at all, it must grow in such direction. If 
it do not, it will not be Christianity that grows, but 
something else that shall have assumed its name and 
usurped its place. The extension of Christianity is the 
extension and multiplication as it were of that which 
constituted Christ himself—it is the conversion of men 
into his image — or else it is nothing. Then, when 
this shall be done, what a paradise of peace, and holi¬ 
ness, and love, will not the earth be! Surely, to be 
used as an instrument in accomplishing such result, one 
may well regard as an honor and privilege, and be rea¬ 
dy to bear and suffer much, if need be, in fulfilling the 
great office. 

I hope I shall not have wearied you by all this ex¬ 
actness. I strictly conform to your injunctions, so that 
you can complain only of yourself. 

We often wish that the time would allow us to escape 
to you, that we might witness your labors and share 
them in the rebuilding and reembelishing of the city. 
Rome will never be a home to Julia. Her affectioni 


A U R E L I A N . 


87 


lire all in Syria. I can even better conceive of Zenobia 
Decoming a Roman than Julia. Farewell. 


Finding arhong the papers of Piso no letter giving 
any account of what took place immediately after the 
meeting of the Christians, which, in his last letter, he 
has so minutely described, I shall here supply, as I may, 
the deficiency ; and I can do it at least with fidelity, 
since I was present at the scenes of which I shall speak. 

No one took a more lively interest in the condition 
and affairs of the Christians than Zenobia ; and it is with 
sorrow that I find among the records of Piso no mention 
made of conversations had at Tibur while these events 
were transpiring, at which were present himself, and the 
princess Julia, the Queen, and, more than once, Aurelian 
and Livia. While I cannot doubt that such record was 
made, I have in vain searched for it among those docu¬ 
ments which he intrusted to me. 

It was by command of the Queen that on the day fol¬ 
lowing that on which the Christians held their assembly 
at the baths, I went to Rome for the very purpose to 
earn whatever I could, both at the Gardens and abroad 
in the city, concerning the condition and probable fate of 
that people, she desiring more precise information than 
could be gathered from any of the usual sources of in 
lelligence. 

It was apparent to me as I entered the city, and pene 
trated to its more crowded parts, that somewhat unusual 


8 ^ 


A U R E L I A N . 


had taken place, or was about to happen. There v^ere 
more than the common appearances of excitement among 
those whom I saw conversing and gesticulating at tho 
corners of streets or the doors of the public baths. This 
idle and corrupt population seemed to have less than on 
other occasions to employ their hands, and so gave their 
time and their conversation to one another, laying no 
restraint upon the quantity of either. It is an indisput¬ 
able fact that Rome exists to this day, for any one who 
will come into Italy may see it for himself, and he can¬ 
not reject the testimony of his eyes and ears. But how 
it exists from year to year, or from day to day, undet 
such institutions, it would puzzle the wisest philosopher, 
1 believe, to tell. Me, who am no philosopher, it puz¬ 
zles as often as I reflect upon it. I cannot learn the 
causes that hold together in such apparent order and 
contentment so idle and so corrupt a people. I have 
supposed it must be these, but they seem not sufficient : 
the Praetorian camp without the walls, and the guard, in 
league with them, within, and the largesses and games 
proceeding from the bounty of the Emperor. These last, 
though they are the real sources of their corruption and 
must end in the very destruction of the city and people 
yet, at present, operate to keep them quiet and in order 
So long as these bounties are dispensed, so long, such 
is our innate love of idleness and pleasure, will the mass 
think it foolish to agitate any questions of right or re¬ 
ligion, or any other, by which they might be forfeited. 
Were these suddenly suspended, all the power of the Prae¬ 
torian cohorts, I suppose, could not keep peace in Rome. 
They were now I found occupied by the affairs of the 
Christians, and waiting impatiently for the orders which 


A U R E L I A N. 


89 


should next issue from the imperial will. The edicts 
published two days before gave them no employment, 
nor promised much. They merely laid restraints upon 
the Christians, but gave no liberty of assault and injury 
to the Roman. 

‘ That does not satisfy the people,’ said one to me, at 
the door of a shop, of whom I had made some inquiry 
on the subject. ‘ More was looked for from the Empe¬ 
ror, for it is well known that he intends the extremest 
measures, and most are of opinion that, before the day 
is out, new edicts will be issued. Why he took the 
course he did of so uncommon moderation ’tis hard to 
say. All the effect of it is to give the Christians oppor¬ 
tunity to escape and hide themselves, so that by the 
time the severer orders against them are published, it 
will be impossible to carry them into execution.’ 

‘ Perhaps,’ I said, ‘ it was after all his intention to give 
them a distant warning, that some might, if they saw 
fit to do so, escape.’ 

‘ I do not believe that,’ he replied ; ‘ it will rather, I 
am of the opinion, be found to have proceeded from the 
advice of Pronto and Varus, to give to the proceedings 
a greater appearance of moderation ; which shows into 
the hands of what owls the Emperor has suffered himself 
to fall. Nobody ever expected moderation in Aurelian, 
nor do any but a few as bad as themselves think these 
wretches deserve it. The only consequence of the 
present measures will be to increase their swelling inso¬ 
lence and pride, thinking that Aurelian threatens but 
dares not execute. Before another day, I trust, new 


VOL. II. 


30 


A U R E L I A N . 


edicts will show that the Emperor is himself. The life 
of Rome hangs upon the death of these.’ 

Saying which, with a savage scowl, which showed 
how gladly he would turn executioner or tormentor in 
such service, he turned and crossed the street. 

I then sought the palace of Piso. I was received ir 
the library, where I found the lady Julia and Piso. 

They greeted me as they ever did, rather as if I were 
a brother than but the servant of Zenobia. But what¬ 
ever belongs to her, were it but so much as a slave of 
the lowest office, would they treat with affection at 
least, if not with reverence. After answering their in¬ 
quiries after the welfare of the Queen and Faustula, I 
made mine concerning the condition of the city and the 
affiirs of the Christians, saying, ‘ that Zenobia was anx¬ 
ious to learn what ground there was, or whether any, to 
feel apprehension for the safety of that people V — Piso 
said, ‘ that now he did not doubt there was great ground 
for serious apprehension. It was believed by those who 
possessed the best means of intelligence, that new edicts 
of a much severer character would be issued before 
another day. But that Zenobia need be under no con¬ 
cern either as to himself or Julia, since the Emperor in 
conversation with him as much as assured him that, 
whatever might befal others, no harm should come to 
them.’ 

He then gave me an account of what the Christians 
had done in their assembly, agreeing with what is now 
to be found in the preceding letter. 

I then asked whether he thought that the Christian 
Macer would keep to the declaration he had made, that 
he would to-day, the edicts notwithstanding, preach is 


A U R E L I A N . 


91 


the streets of Rome ! He replied, that he did not doubt 
that he would, and that if I wished to know what some 
of the Christians were, and what the present temper of 
the people was towards them, I should do well to seek 
him and hear him.’ 

‘Stand by him, good Nicomachus,’ said Julia, ‘if at 
any moment you find that you can be of service to him. 
I have often heretofore blamed him, but since this mur¬ 
der of Aurelia, and the horrors of the dedication, I hold 
him warranted, and more than that, in any means he 
may use, to rouse this guilty people. Perhaps it is on¬ 
ly by the use of such remedies as he emplc-ys, that the 
heart of Rome — hardened by ages of sin — can be 
made to feel. To the milder treatment of Probus, and 
others like him, it seems for the most part utterly insen¬ 
sible and dead. At least his sincerity, his zeal, and his 
courage, are worthy of all admiration.’ 

I assured her that I would befriend him if I could do 
so with any prospect of advantage, but it was little that 
one could do against the fury of a Roman mob. I then 
asked Piso if he would not accompany me ; but he re¬ 
plied, that he had already heard Macer, and was, be¬ 
sides, necessarily detained at home by other cares. 

As there was no conjecturing in what part of the city 
this Christian preacher would harangue the people, and 
neither the Princess nor Piso could impart any certain 
information, I gave little more thought to it, but, as I 
left the palace on the Coelian, determined to seek the 
gardens of Sallust, where, if I should not see Aurelian, 
I might at least pass the earlier hours of the day in an 
agreeable retreat. I took the street that leads from the 
Cmlian to the Capit(jl Hill, as affording a pleasantei 


92 


A U R E L I A N . 


ivalk — if longer. On the way there, I obseived wel 
the signs which were given in the manner and conver¬ 
sation of those whom I met, or walked with, of the 
events which were near at hand. There is no belter 
index of what a despotic ruler, and yet at the same time 
a ‘ people’s’ despot, will do, than the present will of the 
people. It was most apparent to me that they 
were impatient for some quick and vigorous action, no 
matter how violent, against the Christians. Language 
the most ferocious met my ear. The moderation and 
tardiness of the Emperor—of him who had in every 
thing else been noted for the rapidity of his movements 
— were frequent subjects of complaint. 

‘ It IS most strange,’ they said, ‘ that Aurelian should 
hesitate in this matter, in truth as if he were afraid to 
move. Were it not for Fronto, it is thought that noth¬ 
ing would be done after all. But this we may feel sure 
of, that if the Emperor once fairly begins the work of 
extermination, he is not the man to stop half way. And 
there is not a friend of the ancient institutions of relig¬ 
ion, but who says that their very existence depends up¬ 
on— not the partial obstruction of this sect—but upon 
its actual and total extermination. Who does not know 
that measures of opposition and resistance, which go 
but part way and then stop, through a certain unwil¬ 
lingness as it were to proceed to extremes, do but in¬ 
crease the evil they aim to suppress. Weeds that are 
but mown, come up afterwards only the more vigor¬ 
ously. Their very roots must be torn up and then burn¬ 
ed.’ Such language was heard on all sides, uttered 
with utmost violence — of voice and gesture. 

I paused, among other curious and busy idlers, at thj 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘J3 

door of a smith’s shop, which, as I passed slovvlv by, 
presented a striking view of a vast and almost boi nd- 
less interior, blazing with innumerable fires, where la¬ 
borers half naked — and seeming as if fire themselves, 
from the reflection from their steaming bodies of the red 
glare of the furnaces — stood in groups, some drawing 
forth the bars of heated metal and holding them, wdiilo 
others wielding their cyclopean hammers made the 
anvils and the vast interior ring with the blows they 
gave. All around the outside of the shop and in sepa¬ 
rate places within stood the implements and machines of 
various kinds which were either made, or w^ere in the 
process of being put together. Those whom I joined 
were just within the principal entrance looking upon a 
fabric of iron consisting of a complicated array of wheels 
and pulleys, to which the workmen were just in the act 
of adding the last pieces. The master of the place now 
approaching and standing with us, while he gave di¬ 
verse orders to the men, I said to him, 

‘ What new device may this be ? The times labor 
with new contrivances by which to assist the laborer in 
his art, and cause iron to do what the arm has been ac¬ 
customed to perform. But after observing this with 
care I can make nothing of it. It seems not designed 
to aid any manufacture of which I have any knowledge.’ 

The master looked at me with a slighting expression 
of countenance as much as to say ‘ you are a wise one ! 
You must have just emerged from the mountains of 
Helvetia, or the forests of the Danube.’ But he did not 
content himself with looks. 

‘ This, sir ?’ said he. ‘ This, if you would know it, is a 
rack a common instrument of torture — used in all the 


94 


A U R E L 1 A . 


prisons of the empire, the use of which is to extract trutk 
from one who is unwilling to speak except compelled ; 
or, sometimes, when death is thought too slight a pun¬ 
ishment, to give it an edge with, just as salt and pepper 
are thrown into a fresh wound. Some crimes, you must 
know, were too softly dealt with, were a sharp axe the 
only instrument employed. Cassar ! just bring some 
wires of a good thickness, and we will try this. Now 
shall you see precisely how it would fare with your own 
body, were you on this iron frame and Varus standing 
where I am. There,—Cassar having in a few moments 
brought the wires — the body you perceive is confined 
in this manner. — You observe there can be no es¬ 
cape and no motion. Now at the word of the judge, 
this crank is turned. Do you see the effect upon the 
wire ? Imagine it your body and you will have a lively 
idea of the instrument. Then at another wink or word 
from Varus, these are turned, and you see that another 
part of the body, the legs or arms as it may be, are sub¬ 
jected to the same force as this wire, which as the fellow 
keeps turning you see — strains, and straightens, and 
strains, till — crack ! — there ! — that is what we call a 
rack. A most ingenious contrivance and of great use. 
This is going up within the hour to the hall of the Prefect.’ 

‘ It seems,’ I remarked, ‘ well contrived indeed for its 
object. And what,’ I asked, ‘ are these which stand 
here ? Are they for the same or a similar purpose ?’ 

‘Yes — these, sir, are different and yet the same. 
They are all for purposes of torture, but they vary infi¬ 
nitely in the ingenuity with which they severally inflict 
pain and death. That is esteemed in Rome the most 
Dorfect instrument which, while it inflicts the most ex- 


IV U R E L 1 A N . 


96 


quisite lornients, shall at the same time not early, assail 
(hat which is a vital part, but, you observe, prolong life 
to the utmost. Some, of an old-fashioned structure, 
with a clumsy and bungling machinery—here are some 
sent to me as useless — long before the truth could be 
extracted, or much more pain inflicted than would ac¬ 
company beheading, destroyed the life of the victim. 
Those which I build — and I build for the State — are 
not to be complained of in that way. Varus is curious 
enough, 1 can assure you, in such things. All these 
that you see here, of whatever form or make, are for 
him and the hall of justice. They have been all refitted 
and repaired—or else they are new.’ 

‘ How is it possible,’ I asked, ‘ so many could be re¬ 
quired in one place ?’ 

‘ Surely,’ said the master, ‘ you must just have dropt 
down in Rome from Britain, or Scythia, or the moon! 
Didst ever hear of a people called Galilean or Christian ^ 
Perhaps the name is new to you.’ 

‘ No, I have heard it.’ 

‘ Well, these are for them. As you seem new in the 
city and to our Roman ways, walk a little farther in and 
1 will show you others, which are for the men and the 
boys at such time as the slaughter of this people shall 
become general. For you must know, — although it is 
not got widely abroad yet— that by and by the whole 
city is to be let loose upon them. That is the private 
plan of the Emperor. Every good citizen, it will be ex¬ 
pected, will do his share in the work, till Rome shall be 
purged. Aurelian does nothing by halves. It is in 
view of such a state of things that I have prepared an 
immense armory — if I may call it so — of every sort ot 


96 


A U R E L I A N . 


cheap iron tool — I have the more costly also — to ineel 
the gieat demand that will be made. Here they are ! 
commend now my diligence, my patriotism, and my 
foresight ! Some of my craft will not engage in this 
work : but it exactly jumps with my humor. Any that 
you shall choose of these, sir, you shall have cheap, and 
they shall be sent to your lodgings.’ 

I expressed my gratitude, but declined the offer. 

After wandering a little longer around the huge work¬ 
shop, I took my leave of its humane master, still en¬ 
treating me to purchase, and, as I entered again the 
street, turned towards the capital. My limbs were sym¬ 
pathising with those wires throughout the rest of the day. 

I had forgotten Macer, and almost my object in coming 
abroad, and was revolving various subjects in my mind, 
my body only being conscious of the shocks which now 
and then I received from persons meeting or passing 
me, when I became conscious of a sudden rush along 
the street in the direction of the capital, which was now 
but a furlong from where I w'as. I was at once awake. 
The people began to run, and I ran with them by in¬ 
stinct. Ai length it came into my mind to ask why we 
were running ? One near me replied, 

‘ 0, it’s only Macer the Christian, who, ’tis said, in 
spite of the edict, has just made for the steps of the cap' 
itol, followed by a large crowd.’ 

On the instant I outstripped my companion, and turn 
ing quickly the corner, wliere the street in which I was 
crossed the hill, I there beheld an immense multitude 
gathered around the steps of the capitol, and the tall 
form of Macer just ascending them. Resolved to be 
near him, I struggled and forced my way into the mass 


AU RE LI AN. 


97 


till I found myself so far advanced that I could both 
hear and be heard by him, if I should find occasion to 
speak, and see the expression of his countenance. It 
was to me, as he turned round toward the people, the 
most extraordinary countenance I ever beheld. It seem¬ 
ed as if once it had been fiercer than the fiercest beast 
of the forest, while through that was now to be discern¬ 
ed the deep traces of grief, and an expression which 
seemed to say, “ I and the world have parted company. 
I dwell above.” His two lives and his two characters 
were to be read at once in the strong and deep-sunk 
lines of a face that struck the beholder at once with 
awe, with admiration, and compassion. 

The crowd was restless and noisy ; heaving to and 
fro like the fiery mass of a boiling crater. A thousand 
exclamations and imprecations filled the air. I thought 
it doubtful whether the rage which seemed to fill a 
great proportion of those around me would so much as 
permit the Christian to open his mouth. It seemed ra¬ 
ther as if he would at once be dragged from where he 
stood to the Prefect’s tribunal, or hurled from the steps 
and sacrificed at once to the fury of the populace. But, 
as the cries of his savage enemies multiplied, the voices 
of another multitude were lifted up in his behalf, which 
were so numerous and loud, that they had the effect of 
patting a restraint upon the others. It was evident that 
Macer could not be assailed without leading to a gene¬ 
ral combat. All this while Macer stood unmoved, and 
calm as the columns of the capitol itself—waitin^^ till 
the debate should be ended and the question decided — 
a question of life or death to him. Upon the coiumD 
9 VOL II 


A U R E L I A N . 


immediately on his right hand hung, emblazoned with 
gold, and beautiful with all the art of the chirographer, 
the edict of Aurelian. It was upon parchment, within 
a brazen frame. 

Soon as quiet was restored, so that any single voice 
could be heard, one who was at the foot of the steps and 
near the preacher cried out to him, 

‘ Well, old fellow, begin ! thy time is short.’ 

‘ Young man,’ he replied, ‘ I was once old in sin, for 
which God forgive me! — now I am old in the love of 
Christ, for which God be thanked ! — but in years I am 
but forty. As for time ! — I think only of eternity.’ 

‘ Make haste, Macer !’ cried another voice from the 
crowd. ‘Varus will soon be here.’ 

‘ I believe you,’ replied the soldier ; ‘ but I am ready 
for him. I love life no longer than I can enjoy free 
speech. If I may not now and here speak out every 
thought of my heart, and the*whole truth in Christ, then 
would I rather die ; and whether I die in my own bed, 
or upon the iron couch of Varus, matters little. Ro¬ 
mans ! ’ turning now and addressing the crowd, ‘ the 
Emperor in his edict tells me not to preach to you. 
Not to preach Christ in Rome, neither within a church 
nor in the streets. Such is this edict. Shall I obey 
him ? When Christ says, ‘ Go forth and preach the 
gospel to every creature,’ shall I give ear to a Roman 
Emperor, who bids me hold my peace ? Not so, not so, 
Romans. I love God too well, and Christ too well, and 
you too well, to heed such bidding. I love Aurelian 
too, I have served long under him, and he was ever 
good to me. He was a good as well as great general, 
and I loved him. I love him now, but not so well a£ 


A U R E L I A N . 


99 


these ; not so well as you. And if I obeyed this edict, 
it would show that I loved him better than you, and 
better than these, which would be false. If I obeyed 
this edict I should never speak to you again of this new 
religion, as you call it. I should leave you all to perish 
in your sins, without any of that knowledge, or faith, or 
hope in Christ, which would save you from them, and 
form you after the image of God, and after death carry 
you up to dwell with him and with just men forever and 
ever. I should then, indeed, show that I hated you, 
which I can never do. I love you and Rome I cannot 
tell how much — as much as a child ever loved a mo¬ 
ther, or children one another. And therefore it is that 
no power on earth—nor above it, nor under it — no 
power, save that of God, shall hinder me from declaring 
to you the doctrine which 1 think you need, nay, with¬ 
out which your souls will perish and dwell for ever and 
ever, not with God, but in fires eternal of the lowest 
hell. For what can your gods do for you ? what are 
they doing? They lift you not up to themselves — 
they push you down rather to those fires. Christ, O 
Romans, if you will receive him, will save you from 
them, and from those raging fires of sorrow and re¬ 
morse, which here on earth do constitute a hell hot as 
any that burns below. It is your sins which kindle 
those fires, and with which Christ wages war — not 
with you. It is your sins with which I wage war here 
in the streets of Rome, not with you. Only repent of 
your sins, Romans, and believe in Christ the son of God. 
and 0 how glorious and happy were then this great 
and glorious city. I have told you before, and I tell you 
now, your vices are undermining the foundations cf 


190 


AUREl IAN. 


this great empire. There is no power to cure these bu 
in Jesus Christ. And when I know this, shah I cease 
to preach Christ to you because a man, a man like my¬ 
self, f:)rbids me? Would you not still prepare for a 
friend or a child the medicine that would save his life, 
though you were charged by another never so imperi¬ 
ously to forbear ? The gospel is the divine medicament 
that is to heal all your sicknesses, cure all your dis¬ 
eases, remove all your miseries, cleanse all your pollu¬ 
tions, correct all your errors, confirm within you all ne¬ 
cessary truth. And when it is this healing draught for 
which your souls cry aloud, for which they thirst even 
unto death, shall I the messenger of God, sent in the 
name of his Son to bear to your lips the cup, of which 
if you once drink you will live forever, withhold from 
you that cup, or dash it to the ground ? Shall I, a me¬ 
diator between God and man, falter in my speech, and 
my tongue hang palsied in my mouth, because Aurelian 
speaks? What to me, O Romans, is the edict of a Ro¬ 
man Emperor ? Down, down, accursed scrawl! nor 
insult longer both God and man.’ 

And saying that, he reached forth his hand, and t,eiz- 
ing the parchment wrenched it from its brazen frame, 
and rending it to shreds strewed them abroad upon the 
air. 

It was done in the twinkling of an eye. At first, 
horror-struck at the audacity of the deed, and while it 
was doing, the crowd stood still and mute, bereft, as it 
were, of all power to move or speak. But soon as the 
fragments of the parchment came floating along upon 
the air, their senses returned, and the most violent out¬ 
cries, curses, and savage yells rose from the assembled 


A U R E L I A N . 


101 


multitude, and at the same moment a movement wa? 
made to ruih upon the Christian, with the evident pur¬ 
pose to sacrifice him on the spot to the offended majesty 
of the empire. I supposed that their purpose would be 
easily and instantly accomplished, and that whatever 1 
■night attempt to do in his defence would be no more 
than a straw thrown in the face of a whirlwind. But 
iiere a new wonder revealed itself. For no sooner was 
it evident, from the rage and tumultuous tossings of the 
crowd, and their ferocious cries, that the last moments 
of Macer had arrived, than it was apparent that all in 
the immediate neighborhood of the building, on whose 
steps he stood, were either Christians, or Romans, who, 
like myself, were well disposed towards that people, and 
would promptly join them in their defence of Macer. 
These, and they amounted to a large and dense mass, 
at once, as those cries arose, sent forth others as shouts 
of defiance, and facing outwards made it known that 
none could assail Macer but by first assailing them. 

I Col Id not doubt that it was a preconcerted act by 
which the Christian was thus surrounded by his friends 
.—not, as I afterward found, with his knowledge, but 
done at their own suggestion — so that if difficulty 
should arise, they, by a show of sufficient power, might 
rescue him, whom all esteemed in spite of his errors, 
and also serve by their presence to deter him from any 
further act, or the use of any language, that should give 
needless offence to either the Prefect or his friends. 
Their benevolent design wa^3 in part frustrated by the 
sudden, and, as it seemed, unpremeditated movement oi 
Macer ir< tearing down the edict. But they still servet. 

9* voT.,, r 


102 


A U R E L AN. 


as a protection against the immediate assaults of the e:» 
cited and enraged mob. 

But their services were soon ended, by the interference 
of a power with which it was in vain to contend. For 
when the populace had given over for a moment their 
design, awed by the formidable array of numbers about 
the person of Macer, he again, having never moved from 
ihe spot where he had stood, stretched out his long arm 
as if he would continue what he had scarcely as yet 
begun, and to my surprise the people, notwithstanding 
what had occurred, seemed not indisposed to hear him. 
But just at that moment — just as a deep silence had at 
length succeeded the late uproar—the distant sound, in 
the direction of the Prefect’s, of a troop of horse in rapid 
movement over the pavements, caught the ears of the 
people. No one doubted for a moment what it signified. 

‘ Your hour is come, Macer,’ cried a voice from the 
crowd. 

‘ It can never come too soon,’ answered the preacher, 
in the service of God. But remember, Roman citizens, 
what I have told you, that it is for you and for Rome, 
that I incur the wrath of the wicked Varus, and may so 
soon at his hands meet the death of a Christian witness ’ 

As Macer spoke, the Roman guard swept rapidly round 
a corner, and the multitude giving way in every direc¬ 
tion loft him alone upon the spot where he had been 
stand.ng. Regardless of life and limb, the horse dashed 
through the flying crowds, throwing down many and 
trampling them under foot, till they reached the Chris¬ 
tian, who, undismayed and fearless, maintained his pest, 
There was little ceremony ir\ their treatment of him. He 
was seized by a band of the soldiers, his hands strongly 


A U R E L I AN. 


bound behind him, and placed upon a horse — when, 
wheeling- round again, the troop at fu.l speed vanished 
down the same avenue by which they had come, bearing 
their victim, as we doubted not, to the tribunal of Varus 
Determined to see all I could, and the last if it must 
be so, of this undaunted spirit, 1 hastened at my utmost 
speed in the wake of the flying troop. Little as I had 
heard or seen of this strange man, I had become as 
deeply concerned in his fate as any could have been who 
had known him more intimately, or believed both in 
him and with him. I know not what it was, unless it 
were the signatures of sincerity, of child-like sincerity 
and truth stamped upon him, that so drew me toward 
him, together with that expression of profound sadness, 
or rather of inward grief, which, wherever we see it and 
in whouiooever, excites our curiosity and engages our 
sympathy. He was to me a man who deserved a better 
fate than I feared he would meet. He seemed like one 
who, under fortunate circumstances, might have been of 
the number of those great spirits whose iron will and 
p-io-antic force of character bear down before them all 
opposition, and yoke nations to their car. Of fear he 
evidently had no comprehension whatever. The rustling 
of the autumn breeze in his gown alarmed him as much, 
as did the clang of those horses’ hoofs upon the pave¬ 
ments, though he so well knew it was the precursor of 
suffering and death. 

With all the speed I could use I hurried to the hall of 
the Prefect. The crowds were pouring in as I reached 
it, among whom I also rushed along and up the flights 
it' steps, anxious only to obtain an entrance and a post 
i observation, whence I could see and hear what should 


104 


AURELIAN . 


lake place. I soon entered the room of justice. Varua 
was not yet in his seat : but before it at some Hltle dis¬ 
tance stood Macer, his hands still bound, and soldiers of 
the palace on either side. 

I waited not long before Varus appeared at the tribu¬ 
nal ; and following him, and placed near him, Fronto, 
priest of the Temple of the Sun. Now, poor Christiain ! 
I thought within myself, if it go not hard with thee t 
will not be for want of those who wish thee ill. The 
very Satan of thy own faith was never worse than these. 
Fronto’s cruel eyes were fixed upon him just as a hun¬ 
gry tiger’s are upon the unconscious victim upon whom 
he is about to spring. Varus seemed as if he sat in his 
place to witness some holiday sport, drawing his box ot 
perfume between his fingers, or daintily adjusting the 
folds of his robe. When a few preliminary formalities 
were gone through, Varus said, addressing one of the 
officials of the place, 

‘ Whom have we here ? ’ 

‘ Noble Prefect, Macer the Christian.’ 

‘ And why stands he at my tribunal ? ’ continued Varus. 

‘ For a breach of the late edict of the Emperor, by 
which th-e Christians were forbidden to preach either 
within their temples or abroad in the streets and squares.’ 

‘ Is that all ?’ asked the Prefect. 

‘ Not only,’ it was replied, ‘ hath he preached abroad in 
the streets, but he hath cast signal contempt upon both 
the Emperor and the empire, in that he hath but now torn 
down from its brazen frame the edict wnich he had first 
violated, and scattered it in fragments upon the streets.’ 

‘ If these things are so, doubtless he hath well earned 
his death. How is this, Galilean ? dost thou confess 


A U R E L I A N . 


105 


‘liese crtmes, or shall I call in other witnesses of thy 
euilt ? ’ 

‘ First,’ replied Macer, ^ will it please the Prefect to 
have these bonds removed ? For the sake of old fellow¬ 
ship let them be taken off, that, while my tongue is free 
to speak, my hands may be free also. Else am I not a 
whole man.’ 

‘Unbind them,’ said the Prefect; ‘let him have his 
humor. Yet shall we fit on other bracelets anon that 
may not sit so easy.’ 

• Be that as it may,’ answered the Christian ; ‘ in the 
meanwhile I would stand thus. I thank thee for the 
grace.’ 

‘ Now, Christian, once more if thou art ready. Is it 
tne truth that hath been witnessed ?’ 

‘ It is the truth,’ replied Macer ; ‘ and I thank God 
tnat it is so.’ 

• But knowest thou, Christian, that in saying that, 
thou hast condemned thyself to instant death? Was not 
death the expressed penalty for violation of that law ?’ 

‘ Truly it was,’ answered Macer; ‘ and what is death 
to me ? ’ 

‘ I suppose death to be death,’ replied Varus. 

‘ Therein thou showest thyself to be in the same dark 
ness as all the rest of this idolatrous city. Death to 
the Christian, Prefect, is life ! Crush me by thy en¬ 
gines, and in the twinkling of an eye is my soul dwell¬ 
ing with God, and looking down with compassion upon 
ihy stony heart. 

‘ Verily, Fronto,’ said Varus, ‘ these Christians are an 
ingenious people. What a wonderful fancy is this , 
But, Christian,’ turning to Macer, ‘ it were a pity surely 


106 


A U R E T. I A N . 


for tliee to die. Thou hast a family as I learn. Would 
not thy life be more to them than thy death ?' 

‘ Less,’ said the Christian, ‘ a thousand fold ! Were 
it not a better vision to them of me crowned with a vic¬ 
tor’s wreath and sitting with Christ, than dwelling here in 
this new Sodom,and drinking in its pestilential air ? The 
sight of me there would be to them a spring of comfort 
and a source of strength which here I can never be.’ 

‘ But,’ added the Prefect, ‘ it is but right that thou 
shouldst for the present, if it may be, live here and take 
care of thy family. They will want thee.’ 

‘ God,’ replied Macer, ‘ who feeds the birds of the air, 
and through all their wanderings over the earth from 
clime to clime still brings them back to the accustomed 
home, will watch over those whom I love, and bring them 
home. Such, Prefect, are the mercies of Rome toward 
us who belong to Christ, that they will not be left long 
to bewail my loss.’ 

‘ Do thy family then hold with thee ?’ said Varus. 

‘ Blessed be God, they do.’ 

‘ That is a pity — ’ responded the Prefect. 

‘ Say not so, Varus ; ’tis a joy and a triumph to me in 
this hour, and to them, that they are Christ’s.’ 

‘ Still,’ rejoined the Prefect, ‘ I would willingly save 
thee, and make thee live : and there is one way in which 
it may be done, and thou mayest return in joy to thy 
home.’ 

‘ Let me then know it,’ said Macer. 

‘ Renounce Christ, Macer, and sacrifice ; and thy lift 
is thine, and honor too.’ 

Macer’s form seemed to dilate to more than its com 


AUKELIAN. 


107 


mon size, his countenance seemed bursting vvith ex¬ 
pression as he said, 

‘ Renounce Christ ? save life by renouncing Christ ^ 
How litt!*e. Varus, dost thou know what a Christian is ! 
Not though I might sit in thy seat or Aurelian’s, or on 
the throne of a new universe, would I renounce him. 
To Christ, Varus, do I owe it that I am not now what I 
was, when I dwelt in the caves of the Flavian. To 
Christ do I owe it that I am not now what I was when 
in the ranks of Aurelian. To Christ do I owe it that 
my soul, once steeped in sin as thy robe in purple dye, 
is now by him cleansed and, as I trust, thoroughly 
purged. To Christ do I owe it that once worshipping 
the dumb idols of Roman superstition, I now bow down 
to the only living God —’ ‘ Away with him to the 
tormentors !’ came from an hundred voices — ‘ to Christ 
do I owe it, O Prefect, that my heart is not now as thine, 
or his who sits beside thee, or as that of these, hunger¬ 
ing and thirsting — never after righteousness— but for 
the blood of the innocent. Shall I then renounce 
Christ ? and then worship that ancient adulterer, Jupiter 
greatest and best ?— ’ The hall here rang with the 
ferocious cries of those who shouted — 

‘ Give him over to us ! ’ —‘ To the rack with him ! ’ — 

‘ Tear out the tongue of the blaspheming Galilean ! ’ 

‘ Romans,’ cried Varus, rising from his chair, ‘ let not 
your zeal for the gods cause you to violate the sanctity 
of this room of Justice. Fear not but Varus, who, as 
you well know, is a lover of the gods, his country, and 
the city, will well defend their rights and honors again?^ 
whoever shall assail them.’ 

He then turned to Macer and said. 


108 


A U R E L I A N 


‘ I should ill perform my duty to thee, Christian, did i 
spare any effort to bring thee to a better mind—ill should 
[ perform it for Rome did I not use all the means by the 
State entrusted to me to save her citizens from errors 
that, once taking root and growing up to their proper 
height, would soon overshadow, and by their poisonous 
neighborhood kill, that faith venerable through a thous¬ 
and years, and of all we now inherit from our ancestors 
of greatest and best, the fruitful and divine spring.’ 

‘ There, Romans, spoke a Roman,’ exclaimed Fronto. 

As Varus ended — at a sign and a word from him, 
what seemed the solid wall of the room in which we 
were, suddenly flew up upon its screaming pulleys, and 
revealed another apartment black as night, save Fere and 
there where a dull torch shed just light enough to show 
its great extent, and set in horrid array before us, engines 
of every kind for tormenting criminals, each attended by 
its half-naked minister, ready at a moment’s warning to 
bind the victim, and put in motion the infernal ma¬ 
chinery. At this sight a sudden faintness overspread 
my limbs, and I would willingly have rushed from the 
hall — but it was then made impossible. And immedi¬ 
ately the voice of the Prefect was again heard : 

‘ Again, Christian, with Rome’s usual mercy, I freely 
offer to thee thy life, simply on the condition, easily ful¬ 
filled by thee, for it asks but one little word from thy 
lips, that thou do, for thy own sake and for the sake of 
Rome, which thou sayest thou lovest, renounce Christ 
and thy faith.’ 

‘ I have answered thee once, O Prefect ; dost thou 
think so meanly of me as to suppose that what but now 
I affirmed, I will now deny, and only for this show of 


ATJ R E LI A N . 


109 


iron toys and human demons set to play them ? It is 
not of such stuff Aurelian’s men are made, much less the 
soldiers of the cross. For the love I bear to Rome and 
Christ, and even thee, Varus, I choose to die.’ 

‘ Be assured, Christian, I will not spare thee.’ 

‘ I ask it not. Prefect * do ihy worst — and the worst 
IS but death, which is life.’ 

‘ Pangs that shall keep thee hours dying,’ cried the 
Prefect — ‘ thy body racked and rent — torn piecemeal 
one part from another — this is worse than death. Be¬ 
think thee well Do not believe that Varus will relent.’ 

‘ That were the last thing to find faith with one who 
knows him as well as Macer does,’ replied the Christian. 

A flush of passion passed over the face of Varus. 
But he proceeded in the same even tone, 

‘ Is thy election made, Macer ? ’ 

‘ It is made.’ 

‘ Slaves,’ cried the Prefect, ‘ away with him to the 
rack, and ply it well.’ 

‘Yes,’ repeated Fronto, springing with eager haste 
from his seat, that he might lose nothing of what was 
to be seen or heard, ‘ away with him to the rack, and 
ply it well.’ 

Unmoved and unresisting, his face neither pale nor 
his limbs trembling, did Macer surrender himself into 
the hands of those horrid ministers of a cruel and bloody 
faith, who then hastily approached him, and seizing him 
dragged him toward their worse than hell. Accom¬ 
plished in their art, for every day is it put to use, Ma¬ 
cer was in a moment thrown down and lashed to the 
iron bars ; when, each demon having completed th«» pre- 
10 VOL. II. 


110 


AUHELIAN. 


paration, ne btood leaning upon his wheel for a last sigi, 
from the Prefect. It was instantly given, and while the 
breath even of every being in the vast hall was suspen 
ded, through an intense interest in the scene, the crea.f 
ing of the engine, as it began to turn, sounded upon 
the brain like thunder. Not a groan nor a sigh was 
heard from the sufferer. The engine turned till it seem¬ 
ed as if any body or substance laid upon it must have 
been wrenched asunder. Then it stopt. And the min¬ 
utes counted to me like hours or ages ere the word was 
given, and the wheels unrestrained flew back again d 
their places. Macer was then unbound. He at first 
lay where he was thrown upon the pavement. But his 
life was yet strong within his iron frame. He rose at 
length upon his feet, and was again led to the presence 
of his judges. His eye had lost nothing of its wild fire, 
nor his air any thing of its lofty independence. 

Varus again addressed him. 

‘ Christian, you have felt what there is inRoman justice. 
Reject not again what Roman mercy again offers thee — 
life freely, honor too, and office, if thou wilt return once 
more to the bosom of the fond mother who reared thee.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Fronto, ‘ thy mother who reared thee ! 
Die not with the double guilt of apostacy and ingrati¬ 
tude upon thy soul.’ 

‘ Varus,’ said Macer, ‘ art thou a fool, a very fool, to 
deem that thy word can weigh more with me than 
Christ ? Make not thyself a laughingstock to me and 
such Christians as may be here. The torments of thy 
importunity are worse to me than those of thy engines.’ 

‘ I wish thee well, Macer ; ’tis that which makes me 
thus a fool,’ 


A U R E L I A N . 


in 


‘ So, Varus, does Satan wish his victim well, to whom 
he oifers his luscious baits. But what is it when the bait 
id swallowed, and hell is all that has been gained ? What 
should I gain, but to live with thee, O greater fool ? ’ 

‘ Think, Macer, of thy wife and children.’ 

At those names, Macer bent his head and folded his 
nands upon his breast, and tears rolled down his cheeks. 
Till then there had been, as it seemed, a blessed forget¬ 
fulness of all but himself and the scene before him. Va¬ 
rus, misinterpreting this his silence, and taking it for 
the first sign of repentance, hastily cried out, 

‘ There is the altar, Macer.—Slave ! hold to him the 
sacred libation ; he will now pour it out,’ 

Instantly a slave held out to him a silver ladle filled 
with wine. 

Macer at the same instant struck it with his sinewy 
arm and sent it whirling to the ceiling. 

‘ Bind him again to the rack,’ cried the Prefect, leaping 
from his seat; ‘ and let him have it till the nerves break.’ 

Macer was again seized and stretched upon the iron bed 
— this time upon another, of different construction, and 
greater power. Again the infernal machine was worked 
by the naked slaves, and, as it was wound up, inflicting 
all that it was capable of doing without absolutely de¬ 
stroying life, groans and screams of fierce agony broke 
from the suffering Christian. How long our ears were 
assailed by those terrific cries, I cannot say. They pres¬ 
ently died away, as I doubted not, only because Macer 
himself had expired under the torment. When they had 
wholly ceased, the engine was reversed and Macer again 
unbound. He fell lifeless upon the floor. Varus, who 
had sat the while conversing with Pronto, now said, 


112 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ Revive him, and return him hither.’ 

Water was then thrown upon him, and powerful drinka 
were forced down his throat. They produced in a little 
while their intended effect, and Macer gave signs of re¬ 
turning life. He presently gazed wildly around him, 
and came gradually to a consciousness of where and 
what he was. His limbs refused their office, and he was 
supported and partly lifted to the presence of Varus. 

‘ Now, Galilean,’ cried Varus, ‘ again, how is it with 
thee ?’ 

‘ Better than with thee, I trust in God.’ 

‘ Wilt thou now sacrifice ? ’ 

• I am myself, 0 Varus, this moment a sacrifice, well 
pleasing and acceptable to the God whom I worship, 
and the Master whom I serve.’ 

‘ Why, Varus,’ said Pronto, ‘ do we bear longer his 
insults and impieties ? Let me strike him dead.’ And 
he moved his hand as if to grasp a concealed weapon, 
with which to do it. 

‘ Nay, nay. hold. Pronto ! let naught be done in haste 
or passion, nor in violation of the law, but all calmly 
and in order. We act for those who are not present as 
well as for ourselves.’ 

A voice from a dark extremity of the room shouted out, 

‘ It is Macer, O Prefect, who acts for us.’ 

The face of Macer brightened up, as if he had sudden¬ 
ly been encompassed by a legion of friends. It was 
the first token he had received, that so much as one 
heart in the whole assembly was beating with his. He 
looked instantly to the quarter whence the voice came, 
and then, turning to the Prefect, said, 

‘ Yes, Varus, I am now and here preaching to the 


A U R E LJ A 1«. 


113 


people o't Rome, though I speak never a word. ’Tis a 
sermon that will fall det per into the heart than ten 
thousand sooken ones.’ 

The Prefect commanded that he who had spoken 
should be brought before him. But upon the most dili¬ 
gent search he could not be found. 

‘ Christian,’ said Varus, ‘ I have other pains in store, 
to which what thou hast as yet suffered is but as the 
scratching of the lion’s paw. It were better not to suf¬ 
fer them. They will leave no life in thee. Curse 
Christ — ’ti's but a word — and live.’ 

Macer bent his piercing eye upc'n the Prefect, but 
answered not. 

‘ Curse Christ, and live.’ 

Macer was still silent. 

‘ Bring in then,’ cried the Prefect, ‘ your pincers, rakes 
and shells ; and we will see what they may have virtue 
to bring forth.’ 

The black messengers of death hastened at the word 
from their dark recesses, loaded with those new instru¬ 
ments of torture, and stood around the miserable man. 

‘ Now, Macer,’ said Varus once more, ‘ acknowledge 
Jupiter Greatest and Best, and thou shalt live.’ 

Macer turned round to the people, and with his utmost 
vrAce cried out, 

‘ There is, 0 Romans, but One God ; and the God of 
Christ is he — ’ 

No sooner had he uttered those words than Pronto 
exclaimed, 

‘ Ah ! hah ! I have found thee then ! This is the 
voice, thrice accursed ! that came from the sacred 
10* voi. II. 


114 


A U R E L I A N . 


Temple of the Sun ; This, Romans, is the god whose 
thunder turned you paie .* 

‘ Had it been rny voice a.one, priest, that was neard 
.hat day, I had been accursed inaeeQ. i »vas out me 
humble instrument of him 1 serve — driven oy his 
spirit. It was the voice of God, not of man.’ 

‘ These,’ said Fronto, ‘ are the Christian devices, by 
which they would lead blindfold into their snares you, 
Romans, and your children. May Christ ever employ 
in Rome a messenger cunning and skilful as this prating 
god, and Hellenism will have naught to fear.’ 

‘ And,’ cried Macer, ‘ let your priests be but like Fronto, 
and the eyes of the blindest driveler of you all will be 
unsealed. Ask Fronto into whose bag went the buii's 
heart, that on the day of dedication could not be found — 

‘ Thou liest, Nazarene — ’ 

‘ Ply him with your pincers,’ cried Varus, — and the 
cruel irons w'ere plunged into his flesh. Yet he shrunk 
not — nor groaned; but his voice was again heard in 
the midst of the torture, 

‘ Ask him from whose robe came the old and withered 
heart, the sight of which so unmanned Aurelian — ’ 

‘ Dash in his mouth,’ shrieked Fronto, ‘ and stop those 
lies blacker than hell.’ 

But Macer went on, while the irons tore him in everv 
part. 

‘ Ask him too for the instructions and the bribes given to 
the haruspices, and to those who led the beasts up to the 
altar. Though 1 die, Romans, I have left the proof of all 
this in good hands. I stood the while where I saw it all.’ 

‘ Thou liest, slave,’ cried the furious priest; and at 
the same moment springing forward and seizing an 


A U K E L I A N . 


115 


mfslrument from the hands of one of the tormentors, he 
struck it into the shoulder of Macer, and the lacerated 
arm fell from the bleeding trunk. A piercing shriek 
confessed the inflicted agony. 

‘ Away with him! ’ cried Varus, ‘ away with him tc 
the rack, and tear him joint from joint!’ 

At the word he was borne bleeding away, but not in¬ 
sensible nor speechless. All along as he went his voice 
v/as heard calling upon God and Christ, and exhorting 
the people to abjure their idolatries. 

He was soon stretched again upon the rack, which 
now quickly finished its work; and the Christian Ma¬ 
cer, after sufferings which I knew not before that the hu¬ 
man frame could so long endure and live, died a martyr 
to the faith he had espoused ; the last words which were 
heard throughout the hall being these ; 

‘ Jesus, I die for thee, and my death is sweet!’ 

When it was announced to the Prefect that Macer 
was dead, he exclaimed, 

‘ Take the carcass of the Christian dog and throw it 
upon the square of the Jews : there let the dogs de¬ 
vour it.’ 

Saying which, he rose from his seat, and, accompanied 
by Pronto, left by the same way he had before entered 
the hall of judgment. 

Soon as he had withdrawn from the apartment, the 
base rabble that had filled it, and had glutted their sav¬ 
age souls upon the horrors of that scene, cried out tu¬ 
multuously for the body of the Christian, which, when 
*t was gladly delivered to them by those who had already 
had enough of it, they thrust hooks into, and rushed 
out dragging it toward the place ordained for it by the 


116 


A U R E L I A N. 


Prefect. As they came forth into the streets the mob in* 
creased to an immense multitude of those, who seemed 
possessed of the same spirit. And they had not together 
proceeded far, filling the air with their cries and uttering 
maledictions of every form against the unhappy Chris¬ 
tians, before a new horror was proclaimed by that blood¬ 
thirsty crew. For one of them, suddenly springing up 
upon the base of one of the public statues, whence he 
could be heard by the greater part, cried out, 

‘ To the house of Macer ! To the house of Macer ! ’ 

‘ Aye, aye,’ shouted another, ‘ to the house of Macer, 
in the ruins behind the shop of Demetrius !’ 

‘ To the house of Macer! ’ arose then in one deafen 
ing shout from the whole throng; and, filled with this 
new frenzy, maddened like wild beasts at the prospect ol 
fresh blood, they abandoned there, where they had 
dragged it, the body of Macer, and put new speed into 
their feet in their haste to arrive at the place of the ex¬ 
pected sport. I knew not then where the ruins were, or 
it was possible that I might have got in advance of the 
mob, and given timely warning to the devoted family. 
Neither did I know any to whom to apply to discharge 
such a duty. While I deplored this my helplessness and 
weakness, I suffered myself to be borne along with the 
rushing crowd. Their merciless threats, their savage 
language, better becoming barbarians than a people like 
this, living in the very centre of civilization, filled me 
with an undefinable terror. It seemed to me that within 
reach of such a populace, no people were secure of prop¬ 
erty or life. 

' The Christians,’ said one ‘ have had their day and i< 


A U R E L I A N . 


117 


has been a long one, too long for Rome. Let its night 
now come.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said another, ‘ we will all hav^e a hand in 
bringing it on. Let every Roman do his share, ana 
they may be easily rooted out.’ 

‘ I understand,’ said another, ‘ that it is agreed upon, 
that whatever the people attempt after their own man¬ 
ner, as in what we are now about, they are not to be in¬ 
terfered with. We are to have free pasturage, and feed 
where, and as we list.’ 

‘ Who could suppose,’ said the first, ‘ it should be dif¬ 
ferent ? It is well known that formerly, though there 
has been no edict to the purpose, the people have not 
only been permitted, they have been expected, to do their 
part of the business without being asked or urged. I 
dare say if we can do up this family of—who is it ?’ 

‘ Macer, the Christian Macer,’ interrupted the other;— 

‘ we shall receive the thanks of Aurelian, though they 
be not spoken, as heartily as Varus. That was a tough 
old fellow though. They say he has served many years 
under the Emperor, and when he left the arm.y was in a 
fair way to rise to the highest rank. Curses upon those 
who made a Christian of him ! It is they, not Varus, 
who have put him on the rack. But see ! are not these 
the ruins we seek ? I hope so, for I have run far enough.' 

‘ Yes,’ replied his companion ; ‘ these are the old 
baths ! Now for it !’ 

The crowd thereupon abandoning the streets, poured 
itself like an advancing flood among the ruins, filling all 
the spaces and mounting up upon all the still standing 
fragments of walls and columns. It was not at all evi 


118 


A a R E L 1 A N . 


dent where the house of the Christian was. It all 
seemed a confusion of ruins and of dead wall. 

‘ Who can show us,’ cried out one who took upon him¬ 
self the office of leader, ‘ where the dwelling of Macer is V 

‘ I can,’ responded the slender voice of a little boy ; ‘ for 
I have often been there before they became Christians.’ 

‘ Show us then, my young urchin ; come up hither. 
Now, lead the way, and we will follow.’ 

‘You need go no further,’ replied the boy ; ‘ that is it ?’ 

‘ That ? It is but a stone wall !’ 

‘ Still it is the house,’ repjied the child ; ‘ but the dool 
IS of stone as well as the walls.’ 

At that the crowd began to beat upon the walls, and 
shout to those who were within to come forth. They 
had almost wearied themselves out, and were inclined 
to believe that the boy had given them false information, 
when, upon a sort of level roof above the projecting mass 
which served as the dwelling, a female form suddenly 
appeared, and, advancing to the edge—not far above, yet 
beyond, the reach of the mob below — she beckoned to 
them with her hand, as if she would speak to them. 

The crowd, soon as their eyes caught this new object, 
ceased from their tumultuous cries and prepared to hear 
what she who approached them thus might have to say. 
Some, indeed, immediately began to hurl missiles, but 
they were at once checked by others, who insisted ihat 
she should have liberty to speak. And these wretches 
would have been more savage still than I believed them, 
if the fair girl who stood there pleading to them had not 
ffiund some favor. Hers was a bright and sparkling 
countenance, that at once interested the beholder. Deep 


AURELIA N. 


11& 

blu-shes spread over her face and bosom, while she stood 
waiting the pleasure of the heaving multitude before her 
‘ Ah ! hah ! ’ cried one; ‘ who is she but the dancing 
uirl ^lia ! she is a dainty bit for us. Who would have 
thought that she was the daughter of a Christian ! ’ 

‘ I am sorry for her,’ cried another ; ‘ she is too pretty 
to be torn in pieces. We must save her.’ 

‘ Say on ! say on ! ’ now cried one of the leaders of 
the crowd as silence succeeded ; ‘ we will hear you.’ 

‘ Whom do you seek?’ then asked iElia, addressing 
him who had spoken. 

‘ You know well enough, my pretty girl,’ replied the 
other. ‘ We seek the house and family of Macer the 
Christian. Is this it ? and are you of his household ? ’ 

‘ This,’ she replied, ‘ is the house of Macer, and 1 am 
his daughter. My mother with all her children are 
below. And now why do you seek us thus ? ’ 

‘ We seek,’ replied the savage, ‘ not only you but 
your lives. All you have to do is to unbar this door 
and let us in.’ 

Though AElia could have supposed that they were 
..ome for nothing else, yet the brutal announcement of 
the terrible truth drove the color from her cheeks, and 
caused her limbs to tremble. Yet did it not abate her 
courage, nor take its energy from her mind. 

‘ Good citizens and friends,’ said she, ‘ for I am sure 
I must have some friends among you, why should you 
do us such wrong ? We are poor and humble people, 
and have never had the power, if the will had been ours, 
to injure you. Leave us in safety, and, if you require 
it, we will abandon our dwelling and even our native 
Home — for we are all native Romans.’ 


120 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ That, my young mistress, will not serve our turn. Art 
you not, as you said, the family of the Christian Macer 

‘ Yes, we are.’ 

‘ Well,’ answered the other, ‘ that is the reason we 
seek you, and mean to have you.’ 

‘ But,’ replied the girl, ‘ there must he many among you 
who would not willingly harm either Macer or anything 
that is his. Macer is not only a Christian, Romans, but 
he is a good warm-hearted patriot as ever was born 
within the compass of these walls. Brutus himself nev¬ 
er loved freedom nor hated tyrants more than he.’ 

‘ That’s little to the purpose now-a-days,’ cried one 
from the crowd. 

‘ There is not a single possession he has,’ continued 
./Elia, ‘ save only his faith as a Christian, which he would 
not surrender for the love he bears to Rome and to every¬ 
thing that is Roman. Ever since he was strong enough 
to draw and wield a sword, has he been fighting for you 
the battles of our country. If you have seen him, you 
have seen how cruelly the weapons of the enemy have 
hacked him. On every limb are there scars of wounds 
received in battle ; and twice, once in Gaul and once in 
Asia, has he been left for dead upon the field. It was 
once in Syria, when the battle raged at its highest, and 
Carinus was suddenly beset by more than he could cope 
with, and had else fallen into the enemy’s hands a pris¬ 
oner, or been quickly despatched, that Macer came up 
and by his single arm saved his general — ’ 

‘ A great pity that,’ cried many from the crowd. 

‘ Macer,’ continued ^lia, ‘ only thought that Carinus 
'hen represented Rome, and that his life, whatever it 
was, ard however worthless in itself, was needful for 


A U R E L I A N . 


121 


Rome and he threw himself into the breach even as he 
would have done for Aurelian or his great captain Probus. 
Was not his virtue the greater for that ? Was he to feea 
his own humor, and leave Carinus to perish, when his 
country by that might receive detriment? Macer has 
never thought of himself. Had he been ambitious as 
some, he had now been where Mucapor is. But when 
in the army he always put by his own interests. The 
army, its generals and Rome were all in all with him, 
himself, nothing. How, citizens, can you wish to do him 
harm ? or anything that is his ? And, even as a Chris¬ 
tian— for which you reproach him and now seek him 
— it is still the same. Believe me when I say, that it is 
because of his love of you and Rome that he would 
make you all as he is. He honestly thinks that it is 
the doctrine of Christ, which can alone save Rome from 
the destruction which her crimes are drawing down upon 
her. He has toiled from morning till night, all day and 
all night — harder than he ever did upon his marches 
either in Africa or in Asia — that you might be made 
to know what this religion of Christ is ; what it means; 
what it will bestow upon you if you will receive it; and 
what it will save you from. And he would not scruple 
to lose his life, if by so doing he could give any greater 
efficacy to the truth in which he believes. I would he 
were here now, Romans, to plead his own cause 
with you. I know you would so esteem his honesty, 
and his warm Reman heart, that you would be more 
ready to serve thar to injure him.’ 

Pity stood in ::ome eyes, but impatience and anger ic 
mere. 

II 


VOL. II. 


19 . 9 . 


A XT R E L i A N . 


‘ Be not so sure of that,’ cried he who had spoken be¬ 
fore. ‘ No true Roman can love a Christian. Chris 
tians are the worst enemies of the state. As for Ma- 
cer, say no more of him ; he is already done for. All 
you have to do is to set open the door.’ 

‘ What say you of Macer ? ’ cried the miserable girl, 
wringing her hands. ‘ Has any evil befallen him ? ’ 

‘ What he will never recover from,’ retorted the bar¬ 
barian. ‘Varus has just had him on one of his iron 
playthings, and his body we have but now left in the 
street yonder. So hasten.’ 

‘ O worse than demons to kill so good a man,’ cried 
JElia, the tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘ But if he is 
dead, come and take us too. We wish not now to live ; 
and ready as he was to die for Christ, so ready are we 
also. Cease your blows ; and I will open the door.’ 

But her agency in that office was no longer needed. 
A huge timber had been brought in the meantime from 
the ruins, and, plied by an hundred hands with noisy 
uproar, the stone door soon gave way, just as JEVm de¬ 
scended and the murderous crew rushed in. 

The work of death was in part quickly done. The 
sons of Macer, who, on the uproar, had instantly joined 
their mother in spite of all the entreaties of Demetrius, 
were at once despatched, and dragged forth by ropes at¬ 
tached to their feet. The two youngest, transfixed by 
spears, were seen borne aloft as bloody standards of that 
murderous rout. The mother and the other children, 
placed in a group in the midst of the multitude, were 
made to march on, the savages themselves being divided 
as to what should be their fate. Some cried out, ‘ Tc 
the Tiber ! ’ — some, ‘ Crucify them beyond the walls ! 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


123 


— others, ‘ Give ’em the pavements ! ’ But the vdice of 
one more inge lious in cruelty than the rest prevailed. 

‘ To the squire by Hanno’s with them ! ’ 

This proposition filled them with delight. 

‘To Hanno’s ! to Hanno’s !’ resounded on all sides. 
And away rushed the infuriated mass to their evil sport. 

‘ And who is Hanno ?’ I asked of one near me. 

‘ Hanno ? know you not Hanno ? He is brother of 
Sosia the gladiator, and breeds dogs for the theatres. 
You shall soon see what a brood he will turn out. 
There is no such breeder in Rome as he.’ 

Sick at heart as I was, I still pressed on, resolved to 
know all that Christian heroism could teach me. We 
were soon at the square,capable of holding on its borders 
not only thousands but tens of thousands, to which num¬ 
ber it seemed as if the throng had now accumulated. 
Hanno’s extensive buildings and grounds were upon one 
side of the square, to which the people now rushed, calling 
out for the great breeder to come forth with his pack. 

He was not slow in obeying the summons. He him¬ 
self appeared, accompanied, as on the day whenPiso saw 
him on the Capitol Hill, by his two dogs Nero and Sylla. 
After first stipulating with the ringleaders for a sufficient 
remuneration, he proceeded to order the game. He was 
at first for separating the victims, but they implored to be 
permitted to suffer together, and so much mercy was 
shown them. They were then set together in the centre 
of the square, while the multitude disposed themselves 
in an immense circle around — the windows of the 
buildings and the roofs of all the neighboring dwellings 
heit)g also thronged with those who both looked on and 
applauded. Before the hounds were let loose, Haniic 


124 


A U R E L I A N . 


approached this little band, standing there in the mids* 
and clinging to one another, and asked them, 

‘ If they had anything to say, or any message to deliver 
for he would faithfully perform what they might enjoin. 

The rest weeping, ^lia answered, ‘ that she wished 
to say a few words to the people who stood around.’ 

‘ Speak then,’ replied Hanno, ‘ and you shall not be 
disturbed.’ 

She then turned toward the people, and said, ‘ I can 
wish you, Romans, before I die, no greater good than 
that, like me and those who are with me, you may one 
day become Christians. For you will then be incapable 
of inflicting such sufferings and wrongs upon any human 
being. The religion of Jesus will not suffer you to do 
otherwise than love others as you do yourselves; that is 
the great Christian rule. Be assured that we now die, 
as Christians, in full faith in Christ and in joyful hope 
of living with him, so soon as these mortal bodies shall 
have perished ; and that, though a single word of denial 
would save us, we would not speak it. Ye have cruelly 
slaughtered the good Macer ; do so now by us, if such is 
your will, and we shall then be with him where he is.’ 

With these words she again turned, and throwing her 
arms around her mother and younger sisters, awaited the 
onset of the furious dogs, whose yellingsand strugglings 
could all the while be heard. She and they waited but 
a moment, when the bloodhounds, fiercer than the fiercest 
beasts of the forest, flew from their leashes, and, in less 
time than would be believed, naught but a heap of bones 
marked where the Christian family had stood. 

The crowds, then fully sated as it seemei with the 
rare sport of the morning, dispersed, each having some 


AU RE LIAN 


126 


ihing to say to another of the firmness and patriotism of 
Varus and Pronto, — and of the training and behavior 
of the dogs. 

From the earliest period of reflection have I detested 
the Roman character ; and all that I have witnessed 
with my own eyes has served but to confirm those early 
impressions. They are a people wholly destitute of hu¬ 
manity. They are the lineal descendants of robbers, 
murderers, and warriors — which last are but murderers 
under another name—and they show their parentage in 
every line of their hard-featured visages, and stijl more 
in all the qualities of the soul. They are stern,—un¬ 
yielding, unforgiving — cruel. A Roman heart dissec¬ 
ted would be found all stone. Any present purpose of 
passion, or ambition, or party zeal, wilbextinguish in the 
Roman all that separates him from the brute. Bear 
witness to the truth of this, ye massacres of Marius and 
Sylla ! and others, more than can be named, both before 
and since — when the blood of neighbors, friends, and 
fellow-citizens, was poured out as freely as if it had 
been the filthy stream that leaks its way through the 
public sewers ! And, in good sooth, was it not as filthy? 
For those very ones so slain, had the turn of the wheel 
— as in very deed has often happened — set them up¬ 
permost, would have done the same deed upon the oth¬ 
ers. Happy is it for ihe peace of the earth and the 
great cause of humanity, that this faith of Christ, whe¬ 
ther It be true or false, is at length beginning to beat 
iway, and doing somewhat to soften, what more than 

11* VOL. II. 


V2Q 


A U R E L I A N . 


twelve centuries have passed over and left in its original 
vileness. 

When, like the rest of that Roman mob, I had been 
filled with the sights and sounds of the morning, I turn¬ 
ed and sought the palace of Piso. 

Arriving there I found Portia, Julia, and Piso sitting 
together at the hour of dinner. I sat with them. Piso 
had not left the palace since I had parted from him. 
They had remained at peace within, and as ignorant of 
what had happened in the distant parts of the huge cap¬ 
ital, as we all were of what was then-doing in another 
planet. When, as the meal drew to a close, I had rela- 
te(^to them the occurrences of which I had just been 
the witness, they could scarce believe what they heard, 
though it was but what they and all had every reason 
to look for, from the language which Aurelian had used, 
and the known hostility of the Prefect. Portia, the 
mother, was moved more, if it could be so, than even 
Piso or Julia. When I had ended, she said, 

‘ Think not, Nicornachus, that although, as thou know- 
est, I am of Aurelian’s side in religion, I defend these 
inhuman wrongs. To inflict them can make no part of 
the duty of any worshipper of the gods, however zealous 
he may be. I do not believe that the gods are propitiated 
by any acts which occasion suffering to their creatures. 
I have seen no justification under any circumstances of 
human sacrifices — much less can I see any of sacrifices 
like those you have this morning witnessed. Aurelian, 
in authorizing or conniving at such horrors, has cut him¬ 
self loose from the honor and the affections of all those 
in Rome whose esteem is worth possessing. He has 
given himself up to the priesthood, and to the vulgar 


AU RELIAN. 


127 


rabble over whom it exercises a sway more strict than an 
Eastern despot. He is by these acts turning the current 
of the best Roman sympathy toward the Christians, and 
putting off by a long remove the hour when he might 
hope to see the ancient religion of the state delivered 
from its formidable rival.’ 

‘ It is the purpose of Aurelian,’ I said, ‘ not so much 
to persecute and annoy the Christians, as to exterminate 
them. He is persuaded that by using the same extreme 
and summary measures with the Christians, which he has 
been accustomed to employ in the army, he can root oi .t 
this huge evil from the state, as easily as those lesser ones 
from the camp ; — without reflecting that it must be im¬ 
possible to discover all, or any very large proportion of 
those who profess Christianity, and that therefore his 
slaughter of a half or a quarter of the whole number, 
will be to no purpose., It will have been but killing so 
many — there will be no other effect ; unless, indeed, it 
have the effect to convince new thousands of the power, 
and worth, and divinity of that faith, for which men are 
.so willing to die.’ 

‘ I mourn,’ said Portia, ‘ that the great head of the 
state, and the great high priest of our religion should 
have taken the part he has. Measures of moderation 
and true wisdom, though they might not have obtained 
for him. so great a name for zeal and love of the gods 
nor made so sudden and deep an impression upon the 
common mind and heart, would have secured with great¬ 
er probability the end at which he has aimed.’ 

‘ It is hard,’ said I, ‘ to resist nature, especially so 
when superstition comes in to its aid. Aurelian, by 
ture a savage, is doubly one through the influence of hi? 


128 


A U R E L I A N . 


religion and the piiesthood. Moderation and humanity 
are so contrary to every principle of the man and his 
faith, that they are not with more reason to be looked 
for from him than gentleness in a famished wolf.’ 

Portia looked as if I had assailed the walls and 
Capitol of Kome. 

‘ I know not, Greek,’ she quickly said, ‘ on what foun¬ 
dation it is you build so heavy a charge against the 
time-honored faith of Rome. It has served Rome well 
these thousand years, and reared men whose greatness 
will dwell in the memory of the w'orld while the world 
lasts.’ 

‘ Great men have been reared in Rome,’ I repli-' 
ed ; ‘it can by none be denied. But it has been by re¬ 
sisting the influences of their religion, not by courting 
them. They have left themselves in this to the safer 
tutelage of nature, as have you, lady ; and they have es¬ 
caped the evils, which the common superstition would 
have entailed upon them, had they admitted it to their 
bosoms. Who can deny that the religion of Rome, so 
far as it is a religion for the common people, is based up 
on the characters of the gods, as they through history and 
tradition are held up to them — especially as they are 
painted by the poets? Say if there be any other books 
of authority on this great theme than the poets ? What 
book of religious instruction and precept have you, or 
have you ever had, corresponding to the volume of the 
Christians, called their gospels ? ’ 

‘ We have none,’ said Portia, as I paused compelling 
a rejoinder. ‘ It is true, we have but our historians and 
our poets, with what we find in the philosophers.’ 

‘ And the philosophers,’ I replied, ‘ it will be seen a> 


A U R E L I A N. 


129 


once can never be in the hands of the common people. 
Whence then do they receive their religious ideas, but 
from tradition, and the character of the deities of heaven, 
as they are set forth in the poets ? And if this be so, 1 
need not ask whether it be possible that the religion of 
Rome should be any other than a source of corruption to 
the people. So far as the gods should be their models, 
they can do no otherwise than help to sink their imita¬ 
tors lower and lower in all filth and vice. Happily for 
Rome and the world, lady, men instinctively revolt at 
such examples, and copy instead the pattern which their 
own souls supply. Had the Romans been all which the 
imitation of their gods would have made them, this em¬ 
pire had long ago sunk under the deep pollution. Pronto 
and Aurelian—the last at least sincere— aim at a resto¬ 
ration of religion. They would lift it up to the highest 
place, and make it the sovereign law of Rome. In this 
attempt, they are unconsciously digging away her very 
foundations ; they are leveling her proud walls with the 
earth. Suppose Rome were made what Pronto would 
have her ? Every Roman were then another Pronto — 
or another Aurelian. Were that a world to live in ? or 
to endure ? These, lady, are the enemies of Rome, 
Aurelian and Pronto. The only hope for Rome lie'', in 
the reception of some such principles as these of the 
Christians. Whether true or false, as a revelation from 
Heaven, they are in accordance with the best part of our 
nature, and, once spread abroad and received, they would 
tend by a mighty influence to exalt it more and more. 
They would descend, as it is of the nature of absolute truth 
to do, and lay hold of the humblest and lowest and vilest, 
and in them erect their authority, and bring them into 


130 


A U R E L I A N. 


the state, in which every man should be, for the leason 
that he is a man. Helenism cannot do this.’ 

‘ Notwithstanding what I have heard, Nicomachus, j 
think you must yourself be a Christian. But whether 
you are or not, I grant you to understand well what re¬ 
ligion should be. And I must say that it has ever been 
such to me. I, from what I have read of our moralists 
and philosophers, and from what I have reflected, have 
arrived at principles not very different from such as you 
have now hinted at—’ 

‘ And are those of Pronto or Varus like yours, lady ?’ 

‘ I fear not,’ said Portia. 

‘ Yours then, let me say, are the religion, which you 
have first found within your own breast, a gift from the 
gods, and then by meditation have confirmed and exalt¬ 
ed ; theirs, the common faith of Rome. Could your 
faith rejoice in or permit the horrors I have this day 
witnessed and but now described ? Yet of theirs they 
are the legitimate fruit, the necessary product.’ 

‘ Out of the befet,’ replied Portia, ‘ I believe, Nicoma¬ 
chus, may often come the worst. There is naught so 
perfect and so wise, but human passions will mar and 
pervert it. I should not wonder if, in ages to come, this 
peace-loving faith of the Christians, should it survive so 
long, should itself come to preside over scenes as full of 
misery and guilt as those you have to-day seen in the 
streets of Rome.’ 

‘ It may be,’ I rejoined. ‘ But it is nevertheless our 
duty, in the selection of our principles, to take those 
which are the purest, the most humane, the most ac¬ 
cordant with what is best in us, and the least liable to 
perversion and abuse. And whether, if this be just, it 


A U R E L I A N . 


131 


be better that mankind should have presented for their 
imitation and honor the character and actions of Jesus 
Christ, or those of Jupiter “ Greatest and Best,” may be 
leit for the simplest to determine. 

Portia is so staunch a Roman, that one cannot doubt 
that as she was born and has lived, so she will die — a 
Roman. And truth to say, were all like her, there were 
little room for quarrel with the principles that could 
produce such results. But for one such, there are a 
thousand like Varus, Pronto, and Aurelian. - 

As after this interview, which was prolonged till the 
shades of evening began to fall, I held communion with 
myself on the way to the quiet retreats of Tibur, I could 
not but entertain apprehensions for the safety of the 
friends I had just left. I felt that where such men as 
Varus and Pronto were at the head of affairs, wielding, 
almost as they pleased, the omnipotence of Aurelian, no 
family nor individual of whatever name or rank could 
feel secure of either fortune or life. I had heard in¬ 
deed such expressions of regard fall from the Emperor 
for Piso and his beautiful wife, that I was sure that if 
any in Rome might feel safe, it was they. Yet why 
should he, who had fallen with fatal violence upon one 
of his own household, and such a one as x^urelia, hesi¬ 
tate to strike the family of Piso, if thereby religion or 
the state were to be greatly benefited ? I could see a 
better chance for them only in the Emperor’s early love 
of Julia, which still seemed to exercise over him a sin¬ 
gular power. 

The Queen, I found, upon naming to her the subject 
of my thoughts, could entertain none of my apprehen¬ 
sions. It is so difficult for her nature to admit the 


132 


A F i X E L I A N . 


faintest purpose of the infliction of wanton suffering, lha 
she cannot believe it of others. Notwithstanding her 
experience of the harsh and cruel spirit of Aurelian, 
notwithstanding the unnecessary destruction, for any 
national or political object, of the multitudes of Palmyra, 
still she inclines to confide in him. He has given so 
many proofs of regret for that wide ruin, he has suffered 
so much for it — especially for his murder of Longinus 
— in the opinion of all Rome, and of the highest and 
best in all nations, that she is persuaded he will be more 
cautious than ever whom he assails, and. where he scat¬ 
ters ruin and death. Still, such is her devotion to Julia 
and her love of Piso—so entirely is her very life lodged 
in that of her daughter, that she resolved, to seek the 
Emperor without delay, and if possible obtain an assu¬ 
rance of their safety, both from his own arm and that o 
popular violence. This I urged upon her with all m 
freedom I might use ; and not in vain ; for the nex> d; j 
at the gardens of Sallust, she had repeated interviev ^ 
with Aurelian—and afterward at her own palace, whither 
Aurelian came with Livia, and \vhere, while Livia 
ranged among the flowers with Faustula, the Emperor 
and the Queen held earnest discourse — not only on the 
subject which chiefly agitated Zenobia, but on the gen¬ 
eral principles on which he was proceeding in this at¬ 
tempted annihilation of Christianity. Sure I am, tha‘ 
never in the Christian body itself was there one who 
pleaded their cause with a more winning and persuasive 
eloquence. 


▲ U R E LI AN 


1J3 


LETTER X. 

FROM PISO TO FAUSTA. 


1 WRITE to you, Fac*3ta, by the hands of Vabalalhus, 
who visits Palmyra on his way to his new kingdom. I 
trust you will see him. The adversities of his family 
and the misfortunes of his country have had most useful 
effects upon his character. Though the time has been 
so short, he has done much to redeem himself. Always 
was he, indeed, vastly superior to his brothers ; but now, 
he is not only that, but very much more. Qualities 
have unfolded themselves, and affections and tastes 
warmed into life, which we none of us, I believe, so 
much as suspected the existence of. Zenobia has come 
to be devotedly attached to him, and to repose the same 
sort of confidence in him as formerly in Julia. All this 
makes her the more reluctant to part with him ; but, as 
it is for a throne, she acquiesces. He carries away 
from Rome with him one of its most beautiful and esti¬ 
mable women — the youngest daughter of the venera¬ 
ble Tacitus— to whom he has just been married. In 
her you will see an almost too favorable specimen of 
Roman women. 

Several days have elapsed since I wrote to you, giv¬ 
ing an account of the sufferings and death of the Chris¬ 
tian Macer— as I learned them from those who were 
present — for a breach of the late edicts, and for sacrile- 
12 VOL. II. 


134 


A U R E L I A W . 


giously, as the laws term it, tearing down the parch 
rnent containing them from one of the colamns of the 
Capitol. During this period other horrors of the same 
kind have been enacted in different parts of the city. 
Macer is not the only one who has already paid for his 
faith with his life. All the restraints of the law seem 
to be withdrawn, not confessedly but virtually, and the 
Christians in humble condition — and such for the most 
part we are — are no longer safe from violence in the 
streets of Rome. Although, Fausta, you believe not 
with us, you must, scarcely the less for that, pity us in 
our present straits. Can the mind picture to itself, in 
some aspects of the case, a more miserable lot! Were 
the times, even at the worst, so full of horror in Palmy¬ 
ra as now here in Rome ? There, if the city were given 
up to pillage, the citizen had at least the satisfaction of 
dying in the excitement of a contest, and in the defence 
of himself and his children. Here the prospect is — 
the actual scene is almost arrived and present — that all 
the Christians of Rome will be given over to the butch¬ 
ery, first, of the Prefect’s court, and others of the same 
character, established throughout the city for the ex¬ 
press purpose of trying the Christians — and next, of 
the mob commissioned with full powers to search out, 
find, and slay, all who bear the hated name. The 
Christians, it is true, die for a great cause. In that 
cause they would rather die than live, if to live, they 
must sacrifice any of the interests of truth. But still 
death Is not preferred ; much less is death, in the re¬ 
volting and agonizing form, which, chiefly, these volun¬ 
tary executioners choose, to be viewed in any other 
light than an evil to:> great almost to be endured. 


A ir R E L I A N . 


135 


It would astonish you, I think, and give you concep 
tions of the power of this religion such as you have 
never had as yet, could you with me look into the bos¬ 
oms of these thousand Christian families, and behold 
the calmness and the fortitude with which they await 
the approaching calamities. There is now, as they be¬ 
lieve, little else before them but death — and death, such 
as a foretaste has been given of, in the sufferings of Ma- 
cer. Yet are they, with wonderfully few exceptions, 
here in their houses prepared for whatever may betide, 
and resolved that they will die for him unto whom they 
have lived. This unshrinking courage, this spirit of 
self-sacrifice, is the more wonderful, as it is now the re¬ 
ceived belief that they would not forfeit their Christian 
name or hope by’" withdrawing, before the storm bursts, 
from the scene of danger. 

There have been those in the church, and some there 
are now, who would have all, who in time of persecu¬ 
tion seek safety in flight, or by any form of compromise, 
visited with the severest censures the church can inflict, 
and forever after refused readmission to the privileges 
which they once enjoyed. Paying no regard to the pe¬ 
culiar temperament and character of the individual, they 
would compel all to remain fixed at their post, inviting 
by a needless ostentation of their name and faith, the 
search and assault of the enemy. Macer was of this 
number. Happily they are now few : and the Chris¬ 
tians are left free— free from the constraint of any ty¬ 
rant opinion, to act according to the real feeling of the 
heart. But does this freedom carry them away from 
Rome? Does it show them to the world huirying in 
crowds bv day, or secretly flying by night, from the 


136 


AURELIAN. 


threatened woes? No so. All who were here when 
these troubles first began, are here now, or with few and 
inconsiderable exceptions — fewer than I could wish 
All who have resorted to me under these circumstances 
for counsel or aid have I advised, if flight be a possible 
thing to them, that they should retreat with their chil 
dren to some remote and secluded spot, and wait till the 
tem.pest should have passed by. Especially have I so 
advised and urged all whom I have known to be of a 
sensitive and timid nature, or bound by ties of more 
than common interest and necessity to large circles of 
relatives and dependents. I have aimed to make them 
believe, that little gain would accrue to the cause of 
Christ from the addition of them and their's to the mass 
of sufferers — when that mass is already so large; 
whereas great and irreparable loss would follow to the 
community of their friends, and of the Christians who 
should survive. They would do an equal service to 
Christ and his church by living, and, on the first appear¬ 
ance of calmer times, reassuming their Christian name 
and profession ; being then a centre about which there 
might gather together a new multitude of believers. If 
still the enemies of Christ should prevail, and a day of 
rest never dawn nor arise, they might then, when hope 
was dead, come forth and add themselves to the innumc' 
rable company of those, born of Heaven, who hold lile 
and all its joys and comforts as dross, in comparison 
with the perfect integrity of the mind. By such state¬ 
ments have I prevailed with many. Probus too has 
exerted his power in the same direction, and has enjoy¬ 
ed the happiness of seeing safely embarked for Greece, 


A U R E L I A N . 


13? 


or Syria, many whose lives in the coming years Will be 
oeyond price to the then just-surviving church. 

Yet do not imagine, Fausta, that we are an immacu¬ 
late people; that the w^eaknesses and faults which seem 
universal to mankind, are not to be discovered in us • 
that we are all, what by our acknowledged principles we 
ought to be. We have our traitors and our renegades, 
our backsliders, and our well-dissembling hypocrites — 
but so few are they, that they give us little disquiet, and 
bring slight discredit upon us with the enemy. And beside 
these, there will now be those, as in former persecutions, 
who, as ihe day of evil approaches, will, through the 
operation simply of their fears, renounce their name and 
faith. Of the former, some have already made themselves 
conspicuous — conspicuous now by their cowardly and 
hasty apostacy, as they were before by a narrow, con¬ 
tentious, and restless zeal. Among others, the very one, 
who, on the evening when the Christians assembled 
near the baths of Macer, was so forward to assail the 
faith of Probus, and who ever before, on other occasions, 
when a display could by any possibility be made of de¬ 
votion to his party, or an ostentatious parade of his love 
of Christ,was always thrusting himself upon the notice 
of our body and clamoring for notoriety, has already 
abandoned us and sought safety in apostacy. Others of 
the same stamp have in like manner deserted us. They 
lire neither lamented by us nor honored by the other 
party. It is said of him whom I have just spoken of, that 
soon as he had publicly renounced Christ, and sacrificed, 
nisses and yells of contempt broke from the surrounding 
crowds. He, doubtless it occurred to them, who had so 

12* VOL. II. 


13S 


A U R E L I A N . 


proved himself weak, cowardly, and faithless, to one set 
of friends, could scarcely be trusted as brave and sincere 
bv those to whom he then joined himself. There are 
no virtues esteemed by the Romans like courage and 
sincerity. This trait in their character is a noble one, 
and is greatly in our favor. For, much as they detest 
our superstitions, they so honor our fortitude under suf¬ 
fering, that a deep sympathy springs up almost uncon¬ 
sciously in our behalf. Half of those who, on the first 
outbreak of these disorders, would have been found bit¬ 
terly hostile, if their hearts could be scanned now oi 
when this storm shall have passed by, would be found 
most warmly with us — notin belief indeed, but in a 
fellow-feeling, which is its best preparation and alfnost 
certain antecedent. Even in such an inhuman rabble 
as perpetrated the savage murder of the family of Macer, 
there were thousands who, then driven on by the fury of 
passion, will, as soon as reflection returns, bear testimo¬ 
ny in a wholly altered feeling toward us, to the power 
with which the miraculous serenity and calm courage of 
those true martyrs have wrought within them. No 
others are now spoken of in Rome, but Macer and his 
heroic wife and children. 


Throughout the city it is this morning current that new 
edicts are to be issued in the course of the day. Milo, 
returning from some of his necessary excursions into 
the more busy and crowded parts of the city, says that 
it is confidently believed. I told him that I could 
scarcely think it, as I had reason to believe that the 
Emperor had engaged that they should not be as yet. 


A U R E L I A N . 


m 


‘ An Emperor surely,’ said Milo, ‘ may change hia 
mind if he lists. He is little better than the rest of us, if 
he have not so much power as that. I think, if I were 
Emperor, that would be my chief pleasure, to do and say 
one thing to day and just the contrary thing to-morrovv, 
without being obliged to give a reason for it. If there 
be anything that makes slavery it is this rendering a 
reason. In the service of the most noble Gallienus, fifty 
slaves were subject to me, and never was I known to ren¬ 
der a reason for a single office I put them to. That was 
being nearer an Emperor than I fear I shall ever be again.’ 

‘ I hope so, Milo,’ I said. ‘ But what reason have you 
to think, — if you will render a reason, — that Aurelian 
has changed his mind ? ’ 

‘ I have given proof,’ jyiswered Milo, ‘ have I not, that 
if anything is known in Rome, it is known by Curio ? ’ 

‘ I think ymu have shown that he knows some things.’ 
‘ He was clearly right about the sacrifices,’ responded 
Milo, ‘ as events afterwards declared. Just as many 
suffered as he related to me. What now he told me 
this morning was this, “ that certain persons would fin^ 
themselves mistaken — that some knew more than oth¬ 
ers— that the ox led to the slaughter knew less than 
the butcher — that great persons trusted not their secrets 
to every one — Emperors had their confidants — and 
Pronto had his.” ’ 

‘ Was that all ?’ I patiently asked. 

‘ I thought, noble sir,’ he replied, ‘ that it was — for 
upon that he only sagaciously shook his head and was 
silent. However, as I said nothing, knowing well that 
some folks would die if they reiained a secret, though 
they never would part with it for the asking. Curio began 


140 


A U R E L I A N . 


again, soon as he despaired of any question from me 
and said “ he could tell me what was known but to three 
persons in Rome.” His wish was that I should ask him 
who they were, and what it was that was known bui 
to so few ; but I did not, but began a new bargain 
with a man for his poultry — for, you must know, we 
were in the market. He then began himself and said, 
“ Who think you they were ?” But I answered not. 
“ Who,” he then whispered in my ear, “ but Auielian, 
Fronto, and myself !” Then I gratified him by asking 
what the secret was, for if it had anything to do with 
the Christians I should like to know it. “ I will tell 
it to thee,” he said, “ but to no other in Rome, and to 
thee only on the promise that it goes in at thy ear but 
not out at thy mouth.” I said that I trusted that I, who 
had kept, I dared hardly say how many years, and kept 
them still, the secrets of Gallienus, should know how to 
keep and how to reveal anything he had to say. Where¬ 
upon, without any more reserve, he assured me that 
Fronto had persuaded the Emperor to publish new and 
more severe edicts before the sixth hour, telling him as 
a reason for it, that the Christians were flying from Rome 
in vast numbers ; that every night — they having first 
passed the gates in the day—multitudes were hastening 
into the country, making for Gaul and Spain, or else 
embarking in vessels long prepared for such servjce on 
the Tiber ; that, unless instantly arrested, there would 
be none or few for the edicts to operate upon, and then, 
when all had become calm again, and he — Aurelian — 
were dead, and another less pious upon the throne, they 
would all return, and Rome swarm with them as be¬ 
fore. Curio said that, when the Emperor heard this, he 


AU RE LI AN. 


141 


broke out into a wild and furious passion. He swore 
by the great god of light—which is an oath Curio says 
he never uses but he keeps — that you, sir, Piso, had 
deceived him — had cajoled him ; that you had persua¬ 
ded him to Avait and hear what the Christians had to 
say for themselves before they were summarily dealt 
with, which he had consented to do, but which he now 
saw was a device to gain time by which all, or the greater 
part, might escape secretly from the capital. He then, with 
Fronto and the secretaries, prepared and drew up new 
edicts, declaring every Christian an enemy of the slate 
and of the gods, and requiring them everywhere to be 
informed against, and upon conviction of being Chris¬ 
tians, to be thrown into prison and await there the judg¬ 
ment of the Emperor. These things, sir, are what I learn¬ 
ed from Curio, which I make no secret of, for many rea¬ 
sons. I trust you will believe them, for I heard the same 
story all along the streets, and mine is better worthy of 
belief only because of where and whom it comes from.’ 

I told Milo that I could not but suppose there was 
something in it, as I had heard the rumor from several 
other sources ; that, if Curio spoke the truth, it was 
worse than I had apprehended. 

Putting together what was thus communicated by Milo, 
and what, as he said, was to be heard anywhere in the 
streets, I feared that some dark game might indeed be 
playing by the priest against us, by which our lives 
might be sacrificed even before the day were out. 

‘ Should you not,’ said Julia, ‘ instantly seek Aurelian ? 
If what Milo has said possess any particle of truth, it is 
most evident the Emperor has been imposed upon by 
the lies of Fronto. He has cunningly used his opportu* 


142 


A U R E L I A N . 


nities : and you, Lucius, except he be instantly unde¬ 
ceived, may be the first to feel his power.’ 

While she was speaking, Probus, Felix, and others ol 
the principal Christians of Lome entered the apartment. 
Their faces and their manner, and their first words, de¬ 
clared that the same conviction possessed them as us. 

‘ We are constrained,’ said Felix, ‘ thus with little 
ceremony, noble Piso, to intrude upon your privacy. 
But in truth the affair we have come upon admits not of 
ceremony or delay.’ 

‘ Let there be none then, I pray, and let us hear at 
once what concerns us all.’ 

‘ It is spread over the city,’ replied the bishop, ‘ that 
before the sixth hour edicts are to be issued that will go 
to the extreme we have feared—affecting the liberty and 
life of every Christian in Rome. We find it hard to be¬ 
lieve this, however, as it is in the face of what Aurelian 
has most expressly stipulated. It is therefore the wish 
and prayer of the Christians that you, being nearer to 
him than any, should seek an interview with him, and 
then serve our cause in such manner and by such argu¬ 
ments as you best can.’ 

‘ This is what we desire, Piso,’ said they all. 

I replied, that I would immediately perform that 
vhich they desired, but that I would that some other of 
our number should accompany me. Whereupon Felix 
was urged to join me ; and consenting, we, at the mo¬ 
ment, departed for the palace of Aurelian. 

On arriving at the gardens, it was only by urgency 
that I obtained admission to the presence of the Empe¬ 
ror. But upon declaring that I came upon an errand 


A U R E L I A N . 


143 


that nearly concerned himself and Rome, I was ordered 
to be brought into his private apartment. 

As I entered, Aurelian quickly rose from the table, at 
which he had been sitting, on the other side of which 
sat Fronto. None of the customary urbanity was visi¬ 
ble in his deportment; his countenance was dark and 
severe, his reception of me cold and stately, his voice 
more harsh and bitter than ever. I could willingly 
have excused the presence of the priest. 

‘ Ambassadors,’ said Aurelian inclining toward us, ‘ T 
may suppose from the community of Christians.’ 

‘ We came at their request,’ 1 replied ; ‘ rumors are 
abroad through the city, too confidently reported, and 
too generally credited to be regarded as w’holly ground¬ 
less, yet which it is impossible for those wdio know Au¬ 
relian to believe, asserting that to-day edicts are to be 
issued affecting both the liberty and the lives of the 
Christians— ’ 

‘ I would, Piso, that rumor were never farther from 
the truth than in this.’ 

‘ But,’ I rejoined, ‘ has not Aurelian said that he would 
proceed against them no further till he had first heard 
their defence from their own organs ? ’ 

‘ Is it one party only in humam affairs, young Piso,' 
he sharply replied, ‘ that must conform to truth and keep 
inviolate a plighted word ? Is deception no vice when 
it is a Christian who deceives ? I indeed said that I 
would hear the Christians, though, when I made that 
promise, I also said that ’twould profit them nothing ; but 
I then little knew why it was that Piso was so urgent.’ 

‘Truth,’ I replied, ‘cannot be received from some 
quarters, any more than sweet and wholesome water 


144 


A U R E L I A N . 


through poisoned channels. Even, Aurelian, if Frontc 
designed not to mislead, no statement passing through 
his lips — if it concerned the Christians — could do so, 
without there being added to it, or lost from it, much 
that properly belonged to it. I have heard that too, 
which, I may suppose, has been poured into the mind of 
Aurelian, to fill it with a bitterer enmity still toward the 
Christians — that the Christians have sought this delay 
only that they might use the opportunities thus afforded, 
to escape from his power — and that, using them, they 
have already in the greater part fled from the capital, 
leaving to the Emperor but a few old women and chil¬ 
dren upon whom to wreak his vengeance. How does 
passion bring its film over the clearest mind ! How 
does the eye that will not see, shut out the light though 
it be brighter than that of day ! It had been wiser in 
Aurelian, as well as more merciful, first to have tried the 
truth of what has thus been thrust upon his credulity 
ere he made it a ground of action. True himself, he 
suspects not others ; but suspicion were sometimes a 
higher virtue than frank confidence. Had Aurelian but 
looked into the streets of Rome, he could not but have 
seen the grossness of the lie that has been palmed upon 
his too willing ear. Of the seventy thousand Christians 
who dwelt in Rome, the same seventy thousand, less by 
scarce a seventieth part, are now here within their dwell¬ 
ings waiting the will of Aurelian. Take this on the 
word of one whom, in former days at least, you have 
found worthy of your trust. Take it on the word of the 
venerable head of this community who stands here to 
confirm it either by word ot oath — and in Rome il 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


145 


needs but to know that Felix, the Christian, has spoken, 
to know that truth has spoken too.’ 

‘ The noble Piso,’ added Felix ‘ has spoken what all 
who know aught of the affairs and condition of the 
Christians know to be true. There is a-'^.ong us, great 
Emperor, too much, rather than too lit .0, ..f that courage 
that meets suffering and death without shrinking. Let 
your proclamations this moment be sounded abroad call¬ 
ing upon the Christians to appear for judgment upon 
their faith before the tribunals of Rome, and they will 
come flocking up as do your Pagan multitudes to the 
games of the Flavian.’ 

While we had been speaking, Fronto sat, inattentive 
as it seemed to what was going on. But at these last 
words he was compelled to give ear, and did it as a man 
does who has heard unwelcome truths. As Felix end¬ 
ed, the Emperor turned toward him without speaking, 
and without any look of doubt or passion, waiting for 
such explanation as he might have to give. 

Fronto, instantly re-assuring himself, rose from his 
seat with the air of a man who doubts not the soundness 
of his cause, and feels sure of the ear of his judge. 

‘ I will not say, great Emperor, that I have not in my 
ardor made broader the statements which I have received 
from others. It is an error quite possible to have been 
guilty of. My zeal for the gods is warm and oftt.mes 
outruns the calm dictates of reason. But if what has 
now been affirmed as true, be true, it is more I believe 
man they who so report can make good—or than oth* 's 
can, be they friends or enemies of this tribe. Who sha 
now ro out into this wilderness of street, into the mids 

,3 VOL. II. 


146 


A U R E L I A N . 


of ihlii countless multitude of citizens und ngers — 
men of all religions and all manners — and ..jk me out 
the seventy thousand Christians, and show that all are- 
close at home ? Out of the seventy thousand, is it not 
palpable that its third or half may have f.ed, and yet it 
shall be in no man’s power to make it so appear—to point 
to the spot whence they have departed, or to that whither 
they have gone ? But beside this, I must here and now 
confess, that it was upon no knowledge of my own gath¬ 
ered by my own eyes and ears that I based the truth, 
now charged as error ; but upon what came to me through 
those in whose word I have ever placed the most sacred 
trust, the priests of the temple, and, more than all, my 
faithful servant — friend I may call him—Curio, into 
whom drops by some miracle all that is strange or new 
in Rome.’ 

I said in reply, ‘that it were not so difficult perhaps as 
the priest has made it seem, to learn what part of the 
Christians were now in Rome,and what part were gone. 
There are among us, Aurelian, in every separate church, 
men who discharge duties corresponding to those which 
Pronto performs in the Temple of the Sun. We have 
our priests, and others subordinate to them, who fill offi¬ 
ces of dignity and trust. Beside these, there are others 
still, who, for their wealth or their worth, are known 
well, not among the Christians only, but the Romans 
also. Of these, it were an easy matter to learn, whether 
or not they are now in Rome. And if these are here, 
who, from the posts they fill would be the first victims, 
it may be fairly supposed that the humbler sort and less 
able to depart—and therefore safer—are also here. Here 
I stand, and here stands Felix ; we are not among the 


A TT R E L I A . 


J47 


■Hissing ! A nd we boast not of a courage greater tlian 
Tiay be claimed for the greater part of those to whonj 
we belong.’ 

‘ Great Emperor,’ said Pronto, ‘ I will say no more than 
this, that in its whole aspect this bears the same front, 
as the black aspersions of the wretch Macer, whose lies, 
grosser than Cretan ever forged, poured in a foul and 
rotten current from his swollen lips ; yea, while the hot 
irons were tearing out- his very heart-strings, did he still 
belch forth fresh torrents blacker and fouler as they flow¬ 
ed longer, till death came and took him to other tortures 
worse a thousand-fold — the just doom of such as put 
false for true. That those were the malignant lies I 
have said they are, Aurelian can need no other proof, I 
hope, than that which has been already given.’ 

‘ I am still, Pronto, as when your witnesses were here 
before me, satisfied with your defence. When indeed I 
doubt the truth of Aurelian, I may be found to question 
that of Pronto. Piso—hold ! We have heard and said 
too much already. Take me not, as if I doubted, more 
than Pronto, the word which you have uttered, or that 
of the venerable Pelix. You have said that which you 
truly believe. The honor of a Piso has never been im¬ 
peached, nor, as I trust, can be. Yet, has there been 
error, both here and there, and, I doubt not, is. Let it 
be thus determined then. If, upon any, blame shall seem 
to rest, let it be upon myself. If any shall be charged 
with doing to-day what must be undone to-morrow, let 
the burden be upon my shoulders. I will therefore re-^ 
cede ; the edicts, which, as you have truly heard, were to¬ 
day to have been promulged, shall sleep at least another 
day. To-morrow, Piso, at the sixth hour, in the palace 


148 


A UR EL I AN. 


on the Palatine, shall Probus — if such be the p.easure 
of the Christians — plead in their behalf. Then and 
there will I hear what this faith is, from him, or from 
whomsoever they shall appoint. And now no more.’ 

With these words on the part of Aurelian, our audience 
closed, and we turned away—grieving to see that a man 
like him, otherwise a Titan every way, should have sc 
sutrendered himself into the keeping of another ; yet 
rejoicing that some of that spirit of justice that once 
wholly swayed him still remained, and that our appeal 
to it had not been in vain. 

To-morrow then,at the sixth hour, will Probus appear 
before Aurelian. It is not, Fausta, because I, or any, 
suppose that Aurelian himself can be so wrought upon 
as to change any of his purposes, that we desire this 
hearing. He is too far entered into this business — too 
tieartily, and, I may add, too conscientiously — to be 
drawn away from it, or diverted from the great object 
which he has set up before him. I will not despair, 
however, that even he may be softened, and abate some¬ 
what of that raging thirst for our blood, for the blood of 
us all, that now seems to madden him. But, however 
this may be, upon other minds impressions may be 
made that may be of service to us either directly or in¬ 
directly. We may suppose that the hearing of the 
Christians will be public, that many of great weight 
with Aurelian will be there, who never before heard a 
'Word from a Christian’s lips, and who know only that 
we are held as enemies of the state and its religion. 
Fsioecially, I doubt not, will many, most or all, of the 
Senate be there t and it is tc that body I still lock, as 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


149 


m the last resort, able perhaps to exert a p wer that 
may save us at least from absolute annihilatior 

To-day has Probus been heard ; and while others 
sleep, I resume my pen to describe to you the events 
of it, as they have occurred. 

It was in the banqueting hall of the imperial palace 
on the Palatine, that Probus was directed to appear, and 
defend his cause before the Emperor. It is a room of 
great size, and beautiful in its proportions and decora¬ 
tions. A row of marble pillars adorns each longer side 
of the apartment. Its lofty ceiling presents to the eye 
in allegory, and in colors that can never fade, Rome 
victorious over the world. The great and good of 
Rome’s earlier days stand around, in marble or brass, 
upon pedestals, or in niches, sunk into the substance of 
the walls. And where the walls are not thus broken, 
pictures wrought upon them, set before the beholder 
many of the scenes in which the patriots of former days 
ichieved or suffered for the cause of their country. 
Into this apartment, soon as it was thrown open, poured 
a crowd both of Christians and Pagans, of Romans and 
of strangers from every quarter of the world. There 
was scarcely a remote province of the empire that had 
not there its representative ; and from the far East, dis¬ 
cernible at once by tbeir costume, were many present, 
who seemed interested not less than others in the great 
questions to be agitated. Between the two central col¬ 
umns upon the western side, just beneath the pedestal 
of a colossal statue of Vespasian, the great military idol 
0 * Aurelian, upon a seat slightly nised above the floor. 

13* VOL. II. 


150 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


having- on his right hand Livia and Julia, sat the Eiripe* 
ror. He was surrounded by his favorite generals and the 
chief members of the senate, seated, or else standing 
against the columns or statues which were near him. 
There too, at the side of, or immediately before, Anrelian, 
but placed lower, were Porphyrius, Varus, Pronto, and 
half the priesthood of Rome. A little way in front of the 
Emperor, and nearly in the centre of the room, stood 
Probus. 

If Aurelian sat in his chair ot gold, looking the omnip¬ 
otent master of all the world, as if no mere mortal force 
could drive him from the place he held and filled — Pro¬ 
bus, on his part, though he wanted all that air of pride 
and self-conl<dence written upon every line of Aurelian’s 
face and form, yet seemed like one, who, in the very 
calmness of an unfaltering trust in a goodness and power 
above that of earth, was in perfect possession of himself, 
and fearless of all that man might say or do. His face 
was pare , but his eye was clear. His air was that of a 
man mild and gentle, who would not injure willingly the 
meanest thing endowed with life ; but of a man too of 
that energy and inward strength of purpose, that he 
would not on the other hand suffer an injury to be done 
to another, if any power lodged within him could prevent 
it. It was that of a man to be loved, and yet to be 
feared ; whose compassion you might rely upon ; but 
whose indignation at wrong and injustice might also be 
relied upon, whenever the weak or the oppressed should 
cry out for help against the strong and the cruel. 

No sooner had Aurelian seated himself, and the 
thronged apartment become still, than he turned to those 
who were present and said. 


A TT R E L T A N . 


151 


• That the Christians had desired this audience before 
him and the sacred senate, and he had therefore granted 
them their request. And he was now here, to listen to 
whatever chey might urge in their behalf. But,’ said he, 
‘ I tell them now, as I have told them before, that it can 
be of no avail. The acts of former Emperors, from Nero 
to the present hour, have sufficiently declared what the 
light is in which a true Roman should view the super¬ 
stition that would supplant the ancient worship of the 
gods. It is enough for me, that such is the acknowledged 
aim, and asserted tendency and operation of this Jewish 
doctrine. No merits of any kind can atone for the least 
injury it might inflict upon that venerable order of re¬ 
ligious worship which, from the time of Romulus, has 
exercised over us its benignant influence, and, doubtless, 
by the blessings it has drawn down upon us from the gods, 
crowned our arms with a glory the world has never 
known before—putting under our feet every civilized 
kingdom from the remotest East to the farthest West, 
and striking terror into the rude barbarians of the Ger¬ 
man forests. Nevertheless, they shall be heard ; and if 
it is from thee, Christian, that we are to know what thy 
faith is, let us now hear whatever it is in thy heart to 
say. There shall no bridle be put upon thee ; but thou 
hast freest leave to utter what thou wilt. There is no¬ 
thing of worst concerning either Rome or her worship, 
her rulers or her altars, her priesthood or her gods, but 
thou mayest pour it forth in such measure as shah 
please thee, and no one shall say thee nay. Now <=:ay 
on ; the day and the night are before thee.’ 

‘ I shall require, great Emperor,’ replied Prohus, * but 
little of either ; yet I thank thee, and all of our name 


152 


A U R E L 1 A N 


who are here present thank thee, for the tree lange w liich 
thou hast offered. I thank thee too, and so do we all, 
for the liberty of frank and undisturbed speech, which 
thou hast assured to me. Yet shall I not use it to 
malign either the Romans or their faith. It is not with 
anger and fierce denunciation, O Emperor, that it be¬ 
comes the advocate, of what he believes to be a religion 
from Heaven, to assail the adherents of a religion like 
this of Rome, descended to the present generation through 
so many ages, and which all who have believed it in 
times past, and all who believe it now, do hold to be true 
and woven into the very life of the state — the origin of 
its present greatness, and without which it must fall 
asunder into final ruin, the bond that held it together 
being gone. If the religion of Rome be false, or really 
injurious, it is not the generations now living who are 
answerable for its existence formerly or now, nor for the 
principles, truths, or rites, which constitute it. They 
have received it, as they have received a thousand cus¬ 
toms which are now among them, by inheritance from 
the ancestors who bequeathed them, which they receiv¬ 
ed at too early an age to judge concerning their fitness 
or unfitness, but to which, for the reason of that early 
reception, they have become fondly attached, even as to 
parents,brothers, and sisters, from whom they have never 
been divided. It becomes not the Christian, therefore, 
to load with reproaches those who are placed where 
they are, not by their own will, but by the providence of 
the Great Ruler. Neither does it become you of the 
Roman faith to reproach us for the faith to which we 
adhere ; because the greater proportion of us also have 
inherited our religion, as you yours, from parents and 


A U R £ L I A N . 


l/)3 

a community who professed it before us, and a/1 regard 
il as heaven-descended, and so proved to he divine, that 
without inexpiable guilt we may not refuse to accept it. 
It must be in the face of reason, then, and justice, in the 
face of what is both wise and merciful, if either should 
judge harshly of the other. 

‘ Besides, what do I behold in this wide devotion ol 
the Roman people to the religion of their ancestors, but 
a testimony, beautiful for the witness it bears, to the uni¬ 
versality of that principle or feeling, which binds the 
human heart to some god or gods, in love and worship ? 
The worship may be wrong, or greatly imperfect, and 
sometimes injurious ; the god or gods may be so con¬ 
ceived of, as to act with hurtful influences upon human 
character and life ; still it is religion ; it is a sentiment 
that raises the thoughts of the humble and toilworn 
from the earthly and the perishing, to the heavenly and 
the eternal. And this, though accompanied by some or 
many rites shocking to humanity, and revolting to rea¬ 
son, is better than that men were, in this regard, no 
higher nor other than brutes ; but received their being 
as they do theirs, they know not whence, and when they 
lose it, depart like them, they know not and care not 
whither. In the religious character of the Roman peo¬ 
ple—for religious in the earlier ages of this empire they 
eminently were, and they are religious now, though in 
less degree — I behold and acknowledge the providence 
of God, who has so framed u« that our minds tend bj 
resistless force to himself; satisfied at first with low and 
crude conceptions, but ever aspiring after those that 
shall be worthier and worthier. 

‘ And now, 0 Emperor, for the same reason that we 


J54 


A U R E L T A N . 


oelieve God the creator did implant in us all, (^f all tribes 
and tongues, this deep desire to know, worship, and en- 
•oy him, so that no people have ever been wholly igno¬ 
rant of him, do we believe that he has, in these latter 
years, declaied himself to mankind more plainly than 
he did in the origin of things, or than he does through 
our own reason, so that men may, by such better knowl¬ 
edge of himself and of all necessary truth which he has 
imparted, be raised to a higher virtue on earth, and 
made fit for a more exalted life in heaven. We believe 
that he has thus declared himself by him whom you 
have heard named as the Master and Lord of the Chris¬ 
tian, and after whom they are called, Jesus Christ. 
Him, God the creator, we believe, sent into the world to 
teach a better religion than the world had ; and to break 
down and forever destroy, through the operation of his 
truth, a thousand injurious forms of false belief. It is 
this religion which we would extend, and impart to those 
who will open their minds to consider its claims, and 
their hearts to embrace its truths, when they have once 
been seen to be divine. This has been our task and our 
duty in Rome, to beseech you not blindly to receive, but 
strictly to examine, and, if found to be true, then humbly 
and gratefully to adopt this new message from above-—’ 

‘ By the gods, Aurelian,’ exclaimed Porphyrins, ‘ these 
Christians are kindly disposed ! their benevolence and 
their philosophy are alike. We are obliged to them —’ 

‘ Not now. Porphyrins,’ said Aurelian. ‘ Disturb not 
the Christian. Say on, Probus.’ 

‘ We hope,’ continued Probus, nothing daunted by the 
scornful jeers of the philosopher, ‘ tnat we are sincerely 
desirous of yorr welfare, and so pray that in the lapse 


A 0 K E L I A N. 


15J 


ol years all may, as some have d^ne, take ai our hands 
the good we proffer them ; for, sure we are, that would 
all so receive it, Rome would tower upwards with a 
glory and a beauty that should make her a thousand-fold 
more honored and beloved than now, and her roots would 
strike down, and so fasten themselves in the very centre 
of the earth, that well might she then be called the Eter¬ 
nal City. Yet, 0 Emperor, though such is our aim and 
purpose ; though we would propagate a religion from 
God, and, in doing so, are willing to labor our lives long, 
and, if need be, die in the sacred cause, yet are we char¬ 
ged as atheists. The name by which we are known, as 
much as by that of Christian, is atheist — ’ 

‘ Such, I have surely believed you,’ said Porphyrius, 
again breaking in, ‘ and, at this moment, do.’ 

‘ But it is a name, Aurelian, fixed upon us ignorantly 
or slanderously ; ignorantly, I am willing to believe. 
We believe in a God, 0 Emperor ; it is to him we live, 
and to him we die. The charge of atheism I thus pub¬ 
licly deny, as do all Christians who are here, as would 
all throughout the world with one acclaim, were they also 
here, and would all seal their testimony, if need were, 
with their blood. We believe in God ; not in many 
gods, some greater and some lesser, as with you, and 
whose forms are known and can be set forth in images 
and statues— but in one, one God, the sole monarch of 
the universe ; whom no man, be he never so cunning, 
can represent in wood, or brass, or stone ; whom, so to 
represent in any imaginary shape, our faith denounces 
as unlawful and impious. Hence it is, 0 Emperor, be¬ 
cause the vulgar, when they enter our churches or our 
houses, see there no image of god or goddess, tha . thej 


156 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


irr.agit.e we are without a God, and without his worship. 
And such conclusion may in them be excused. For, till 
they are instructed, it may not be easy for them to con¬ 
ceive of one God, filling Heaven and earth with his pres¬ 
ence. But in others it is hard to see how they think us 
atheists on the same ground, since nothing can be plain¬ 
er than that among you, the intelligent, and the philoso¬ 
phers especially, believe as we do in a great pervading 
invisible spirit of the universe. Plato worshipped not 
nor believed in these stone or wooden gods ; nor in any 
of the fables of the Greek religion ; yet who ever has 
charged him with atheism ? So was it with the great 
Longinus. I see before me those who are now famed 
for their science in such things, who are the teachers of 
Rome in them, yet not one, I may venture to declare, 
believes other than as Plato and Longinus did in this 
regard. It is an error or a calumny that has ever pre¬ 
vailed concerning us ; but in former times some have 
had the candor, when the error has been removed, to 
confess publicly that they had been subject to it. The 
Emperor Marcus Aurelius, to name no other, when, in 
the straits into which he was fallen atCotinus, he charg¬ 
ed his disasters upon the Christian soldiers, and, they 
praying prostrate upon the earth for him and his army 
and empire, he forthwith gained the victory, which be¬ 
fore he had despaired of—did then immediately acknowl¬ 
edge that they had a God, and that they should no longer 
be reviled as atheists ; since it was plain that men might 
believe in a God, and carry about the image of him in 
their own minds, though they had no visible one. It is 
thus we are all believers. We carry about with us, in 
the sanctuary of our own bosoms, our image of tbe great 


A U R E L I A IS . 


157 


and almighty God whom we serve ; and before that, and 
that only, do we bow dovvn and worship. Were we in¬ 
deed atheists, it were not unreasonable that you dealt 
with us as you now do, nay and much more severely ; 
for, where belief in a God does not exist, it is not easy 
to see how any state can long hold together. The ne¬ 
cessary bond is wanting, and, as a sheaf of wheat when 
the band is broken, it must fall asunder. 

‘ The first principle of the religion of Christ is this 
belief in God ; in his righteous providence here on 
earth, and in a righteous retribution hereafter. How 
then can the religion of Christ in this respect be of dan¬ 
gerous influence or tendency ? It is well known to all, 
who are acquainted in the least with history or philoso¬ 
phy, that in the religion of the Jews, the belief and 
worship of one God almost constitutes the religion itself. 
Every thing else is inferior and subordinate. In this 
respect the religion of Jesus is like that of the Jews. 
It is exceeding jealous of the honor and worship of this 
one God — this very same God of the Jews ; for Jesus 
was himself a Jew, and has revealed to us the same God 
whom we are required to worship, only with none of 
the ceremonies, rites, and sacrifices, which were peculiar 
to that people. It is this which has caused us, equally 
to our and their displeasure, frequently to be confounded 
together, and mistaken the one for the other. But the 
differences between us are, excepting in the great doc¬ 
trine I have just named, very great and essential. This 
doctrine therefore, which is the chief of all, being so fun¬ 
damental with us, it is not easy, I say, to see how W3 
can on religious accounts be dangerous to the state 
14 VOL. II. 


158 


A U RE LlAN . 


For many things are comprehended in and follow frorri 
this faith. It is not a barren, unprofitable speculation^ 
but a practical and restraining doctrine of the greatest 
moral efficiency. If it be not this to us, to all and every 
one of us, it is not what it ought to be, and we wrongly 
understand or else wilfully pervert it. 

‘ We believe that we are everywhere surrounded by 
the presence of our God : that he is our witness every 
moment, and everywhere conscious, as we are ourselves, 
of our words, acts, and thoughts ; and will bring us all 
to a strict account at last for whatever he has thus wit¬ 
nessed that has been contrary to that rigid law of holy 
living which he has established over us in Christ. Must 
not this act upon us most beneficially ? We believe that 
in himself he is perfect purity, and that he demands of 
us that we be so in our degree also. We can impute 
to him none of the acts, such as the believers in the 
Greek and Roman religions freely ascribe to their Jove, 
and so have not, as others have, in such divine example, 
a warrant and excuse for the like enormities. This one 
God too we also regard as our judge, who will in the 
end sit upon our conduct throughout the whole of our 
lives, and punish or reward according to what we shall 
have been, just as the souls of men, according to your 
belief, receive their sentence at the bar of Minos and 
Rhadarnanthus. And other similar truths are wrapt up 
with and make apart of this great primary one. Where¬ 
fore it is most evident, that nothing can be more false 
and absurd than to think and speak of us as atheists, 
and for that reason a nuisance in the state. 

‘ But it is not only that we are atheists, but that, 
through our atheism, we are to be looked upon as disor 


A U R E L I A N . 


159 


derly members of society, disturbers of ^he peace, disaf¬ 
fected and rebellious citizens, that we hear on every side. 
I do not believe that this charge has ever been true of 
any, much less of all. Or if any Christian has at any 
time and for any reason disobeyed the laws, withheld 
his taxes when they have been demanded, or neglected 
any duties which, as a citizen of Rome, he has owed to 
the Emperor, or any representative of him, then so far 
he has not been a Christian. Christ’s kingdom is not 
of this world — though, because we so often and so 
much speak of a kingdom, we have been thought to 
aim at one on earth — it is above ; and he requires us 
while here below to be obedient to the laws and the ru¬ 
lers that are set up over us, so far as we deem them in 
accordance with the everlasting laws of God and of right; 
to pay tribute to whomsoever it is due ; here in Rome 
to CaBsar; and, wherever we are, to be loyal and quiet 
citizens of the state. And the reception of his religion 
tends to make such of us all. Whoever adopts the 
faith of the gospel of Jesus will be a virtuous, and holy, 
and devout man, and therefore, both in Rome, in Per¬ 
sia, and in India, and everywhere, a good subject. 

% ‘ We defend not nor abet, great Emperor, the act of 
that holy but impetuous and passionate man, who so 
lately, in defiance of the imperial edict and before either 
remonstrance or appeal on our part, preached on the 
very steps of .the capitol, and there committed that vio¬ 
lence for which he hath already answered with his life 
We defend him not in that ; but neither do we defend, 
but utterly condemn and execrate the unrighteous haste, 
and the more than demoniac barbarity of his death. God, 


160 


A U R E L I A N . 


we rejoice in all our afflictions to believe, is over all, and 
the wicked, the cruel, and the unjust, shall not escape. 

‘Yet it must be acknowledged that there are higher 
duties than those which we owe to the state, even aa 
there is a higher sovereign to whom we owe allegianc'^ 
than the head of the state, whether that head be king, 
senate, or emperor. Man is not only a subject and a 
citizen, he is first of all the creature of God, and amen¬ 
able to his laws. When therefore there is a conflict be¬ 
tween the laws of God and the king, who can doubt 
which are to be obeyed ? —’ 

‘ Who does not see,’ cried Porphyrins vehemently, 
‘ that in such principles there lurks the blackest treason ? 
for who but themselves are to judge when the laws of 
the two sovereigns do thus conflict? and what law then 
may be promulged, but to them it may be an offence?’ 

‘ Let not the learned Porphyrins,’ resumed Probus, 
‘rest in but a part of what I say. Let him hear the 
whole, and then deny the principle if he can. I say, 
when the law of God and the law of man are opposite 
the one to the other, we are not to hesitate which to o- 
bey and which to break ; our first allegiance is due to 
Heaven. And it is true that we ourselves are to be the 
judges in the case. But then we are judges under the 
same stern laws of conscience toward God, which com¬ 
pel us to violate the law of the empire, though death in 
its most terrific form be the penalty. And is it likely 
therefore that we shall, for frivolous causes, or imagin¬ 
ary ones, or none at all, hold it to be our duty to rebel 
against the law of the land ? To think so were to rate 
us low indeed. They may surely be trusted to make 
this decision, whose fidelity to conscience in other emer- 


A U R E L I A N . 


161 


gences brings down upon them so heavy a load of ca¬ 
lamity. I may appeal moreover to all, I think, who hear 
me, of the common faith, whether they themselves would 
not hold by the same principle ? Suppose the case that 
your supreme god — “ Jupiter greatest and best”— or 
the god beyond and above him, in whom your philoso¬ 
phers have faith — revealed a law, requiring what the 
law of the empire forbids, must you not, would you not, 
if your religion were anything more than a mere pretence, 
obey the god rather than the man ? Although therefore, 
great Emperor, we blame the honestMacer for his precipi¬ 
tancy, yet it ought to be, and is, the determination of us 
all to yield obedience to no law which violates the law 
of Heaven. We having received the faith of Christ in 
trust, to be by us dispensed to mankind, and believing 
the welfare of mankind to depend upon the wide exten¬ 
sion of it, we will rather die than shut it up in our own 
bosoms — we will rather die, than live with our tongues 
tied and silent — our limbs fettered and bound ! We 
must speak, or we will die —’ 

Porphyrins again sprang from his seat with intent to 
speak, but the Emperor restrained him. 

‘ Contend not now. Porphyrins ; let us hear the Chris¬ 
tian. I have given him his freedom. Infringe it not.’ 

‘ I will willingly, noble Emperor,’ said Probus, ‘ respond 
to whatsoever the learned Tyrian may propose. All I 
can desire is this only, that the religion of Christ may 
be seen, by those who are here, to be what it truly is ; 
and it may be, that the questions or the objections of the 
philosopher shall show this more perfectly than a con 
tinned discourse.’ 

14=^ VOL. II 


162 


A U R E L I A N . 


The Emperor, however, making a sign, he went on. 

‘ We have also been charged, O Emperor, with vice* 
and crimes, committed at both our social and our religious 
meetings, at which nature revolts, which are even be¬ 
yond in grossness what have been ever ascribed to the 
most flagitious of mankind.’—-Probus here enumerated 
the many rumors which had long been and still were 
current in Rome, and, especially by the lower orders, 
believed ; and drew then such a picture of the charac¬ 
ter, lives, manners, and morals of the Christians, for the 
truth of which he appealed openly to noble and distin¬ 
guished persons among the Romans then present, — not 
of the Christian faith, but who were yet well acquainted 
with their character and condition, and who would not re¬ 
fuse to testify to what he had said—that there could none 
have been present in that vast assembly but who, if there 
were any sense of justice within them, must have dis¬ 
missed forever from their minds, if they had ever enter¬ 
tained them, the slanderous fictions that had filled them. 

To report to you, Fausta, this part of his defence, 
must be needless, and could not prove otherwise than 
painful. He then also refuted in the same manne*' 
other common objections alleged against the Christians 
and their worship ; the lateness of its origin ; its beggarly 
simplicity ; the low and ignorant people who alone or 
chiefly, both in Rome and throughout the world, have 
received it ; the fierce divisions and disputes among the 
Christians themselves ; the uncertainty of its doctrines ; 
the rigor of its morality, as unsuited to mankind ; as 
also its spiritual worship ; the slowness of its progress; 
and the little likelihood that, if God were its author, he 
would leave it to be trodden under foot and so nearly 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


i6S 

iniiihilated by the very people to whom he was sending 
It ; these and other similar things usually urged against 
the Christians, and now for the first time, it is probable, 
by most of the Romans present, heard, refuted, and ex¬ 
plained, did Probus set forth, both with brevity and 
force ; making nothing tedious by reason of a frivolous 
minuteness, nor yet omitting a single topic or argument, 
which it was due to the cause he defended, to bring be¬ 
fore the minds of that august assembly. He then ended 
his appeal in the following manner : 

‘ And now, great Emperor, must you have seen, in 
what I have already said, what the nature and charac¬ 
ter of this religion is ; for in denying and disproving 
the charges that have been brought against it, I have, in 
most particulars, alleged and explained some opposite 
truth or doctrine, by which it is justly characterized. 
But that you may be informed the more exactly for 
what it is you are about to persecute and destroy us, 
and for what it is that we cheerfully undergo torture 
and death sooner than surrender or deny it, listen yet a 
moment longer. You have heard that we are named 
after Jesus, Jesus of Nazareth in Galilee, who, in the 
reign of Tiberius, was born in Judea, and there lived 
and taught, a prophet and messenger of God, till he 
was publicly crucified by his bitter enemies the Jews. 
Wc do not doubt, nay, we all steadfastly believe, that 
this Jesus was the Son of the Most High God, by reasor 
of his wonderful endowments and his delegated office 
as the long-looked-for Messiah of the Jews. As the 
evidences of his great office and of his divine origin, he 
performed those miracles that filled with astonishmen!: 
the whole Jewish nation, and strangers from all parts of 


(64 


A U E E L I A N . 


the world; and so wrought even upon the mind of youi 
great predecessor, the Emperor Tiberius, that lie would 
fain receive him into the number of the gods of Rome, 
And why, 0 Emperor, was this great personage sent 
forth into the world, encircled by the rays of divine 
power and wisdom and goodness, an emanation of the 
self-existent and infinite God ? And why do we sc honor 
him, and cleave to him, that we are ready to offer our 
lives in sacrifice, while we go forth as preachers of his 
faith, making him known to all nations as the universal 
Saviour and Redeemer ? This Jesus came into the 
world, and lived and taught ; was preceded by so long 
a preparation of prophetic annunciation,and accompanied 
by so sublime demonstrations of almighty power, to 
this end, and to this end only, that he might save us 
from our sins, and from those penal consequences in 
this world and in worlds to come, which are bound to 
them by the stern decrees of fate. Yes, Aurelian, Jesus 
came only that he might deliver mankind from the 
thraldom of every kind of wickedness, and raise them 
to a higher condition of virtue and happiness. He was 
a great moral and religious teacher and reformer, en¬ 
dowed with the wisdom and power of the supreme God. 
He himself toiled only in Judea ; but he came a bene¬ 
factor of Rome too—of Rome as w'ell as of Judea He 
came to purge it of its pollutions ; to check in their 
growth those customs and vices which seem destined, 
reaching their natural height and size, to overlay and 
bury in final ruin the city and the empire ; he came to 
make us citizens of Heaven through the virtues which 
his doctrine should build up in the soul, and so citizens 
of Rome more worthy of that name than any who evei 


A U R E L I A N. 


165 


;vent before. He came to heal, to mend, to refoirn the 
state ; not to set up a kingdom in hostility to this, but in 
unison with it ; an inward, invisible kingdom in every 
man’s heart, which should be as the soul of the other. 

‘ It was to reform the morals of the state, to save it 
from itself, that you, Aurelian, in the first years of your 
reign, applied those energies that have raised the em¬ 
pire to more than its ancient glory. You aimed to in¬ 
fuse a love of justice and of peace, to abate the extra¬ 
vagances of the times, to stem the tide of corruption that 
seemed about to bear down upon its foul streams the 
empire itself, tossing upon its surface a wide sea of ru¬ 
in. It was a great work — too great for man. It need¬ 
ed a divine strength and a more than human wisdom. 
These were not yours ; and it is no wonder that the 
work did not go on to its completion. Jesus is a refor¬ 
mer ; of Rome and of the world also. The world is 
his theatre of action ; but with him there is leagued 
the arm and the power of the Supreme God ; and the 
work which he attempts shall succeed. It cannot but 
succeed. It is not so much he, Jesus of Nazareth, who 
has come forth upon this great errand of mercy and love 
to mankind, as God himself in and through him. It is 
the Great God of the Universe, who, by Jesus Christ as 
his agent and messenger, comes to you, and would re¬ 
form and redeem your empire, and out of that which is 
transitory, and by its inherent vice threatened with de¬ 
cay and death, make a city and an empire which, through 
the energy of its virtues, shall truly be eternal. Car. 
you not, 0 Emperor, supposing the claims of this reli¬ 
gion to a divine origin to be just, view it with respect? 
Nay, could you not greet its approach to your capital 


166 


A U R E L I A N . 


with pleasure and gratitude, seeing its aim is nothing 
else than this, to purify, purge, and reform the state, to 
heal its wounds, cleanse its putrifying members, and in¬ 
fuse the element of a new and healthier life? Methinks 
a true patriot and lover of Rome must rejoice when any 
power approaches and offers to apply those remedies 
that may, with remotest probability only, bid fair to cure 
the diseases of which her body is sick, nigh unto death. 

‘ Such, Aurelian, was and is the aim of Jesus, in the 
religion which he brought. And of us, who are his 
ministers, his messengers — who go forth bearing these 
glad tidings of deliverance from sin and corruption, and 
of union with God — our work is the same with his. 
We but repeat the lessons which he gave. Are we, in 
so doing, enemies of Rome ? Are we not rather ner 
truest friends ? By making men good, just, kind, and 
honest, are we not at the same time making them the 
best citizens ? Are there in Rome better citizens than 
the Christians ? 

‘You will now perhaps, Aurelian, desire to be told 
by what instruments Christianity hopes to work such 
changes. It is simply, 0 Emperor, by the power of 
truth ! The religion which we preach uses not force. 
Were the arm of Aurelian at this moment the arm of 
Probus, he could do no more than he now does with one, 
which, as the world deems, is in the comparison power¬ 
less as an infant’s. In all that pertains to the soul, and 
its growth and purification, there must be utmost free¬ 
dom. The soul must suffer no constraint. There must 
be no force laid upon it, but the force of reason and the 
appeal of divine truth. All that we ask or want in 
Rome is the liberty of speech — the free allowance to 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


167 


offer to men the truth in Christ, and persuade them to 
consider it. With that we will engage to reform and 
save the whole world. We want not to meddle with 
affairs of state, nor with the citizen’s relations to the 
state ; we have naught to do with the city, or its laws, 
or government, beyond what was just now stated. We 
desire but the privilege to worship God according to our 
consciences, and labor for the moral welfare of all who 
will hear our words. 

‘ And if you would know what the truth is we impart, 
and by which we would save the souls of men, and re¬ 
form the empire and the world, be it known to you that 
we preach Jesus Christ and him crucified, whom God 
raised up and sent into the world to save it by his doc¬ 
trine and life, and whom—being by the Jews hung upon 
a cross — God raised again from the dead. We preach 
him as the Son of God with power, by whom God has 
been revealed to mankind in his true nature and perfec¬ 
tions, and through whom, he and he only is to be wor¬ 
shipped. In the place of Jupiter, we bring you a revela 
tion of the God and Father of Christ Jesus our Lord — 
creator of the universe, who will call all men into judg¬ 
ment at last, rewarding or punishing according to what 
they have done. Through Jesus, we preach also a re¬ 
surrection from the dead. We show, by arguments 
which cannot be refuted, that this Jesus, when he had 
been crucified and slain, and had lain three days in 
the tomb, was called again to life, and taken up to Hea¬ 
ven, as an example of what should afterwards happen 
to all his followers. Through him has immortality been 
plainly brought to light and proved, and this transport¬ 
ing truth we declare wherever we go. Through Jesus, 


168 


A U R E L I A N . 


we preach also repeniance ; we declare to men theii 
wickedness ; we show them what and how great it is ; 
and exhort them to repentance, as what can alone save 
them from the wrath to come. 

‘ This, 0 Emperor, is the great work which we, as 
apostles of Jesus, have to do, to convince the world how 
vile it is ; how surely their wickedness, unrepented of, 
will work their misery and their ruin, and so lead them 
away from it, and up the safe and pleasant heights ol 
Christian virtue. We find Rome sunk in sensuality and 
sin ; nor only that, but ignorant of its own guilt, dead to 
the VAUckedness into which it has fallen, and denying 
any obligations to a difTerent or better life. Such do we 
find, indeed, not Rome only, but the world itself, dead 
in trespasses and sin. We would rouse it from this 
sleep of death. We desire, first of all, to waken in the 
souls of men a perception of the guilt of sin ! a feeling 
of the wide departure of their lives from the just demands 
of the being who made them. The prospect of immor¬ 
tality were nothing without this. Longer life were but 
a greater evil were we not made alive to sin and righte¬ 
ousness. Life on earth, Aurelian, is not the best thing, 
but virtuous life : so life without end is not the best thing, 
but life without fault or sin. But to the necessity of 
such a life men are now insensible and dead. They 
love the prospect of an immortal existence, but not of that 
purity without which immortality were no blessing. 
But it is this moral regeneration — this waking up of 
men dead in sin, to the life of righteousness, which is the 
great aim of Christianity. Repentance ! was the first 
word of its founder when he began preaching in Judea ; 
it is the first word of his followers wherever they go. 


A U R E L I A N . 


169 


and should be the last. This, 0 Aurelian, in few words, 
is the gospel of Jesus — “ Repent and live forever !” 

‘ In the service of this gospel, and therefore of you 
and the world, we are content to labor while we live, to 
suffer injury and reproach, and if need be, and they to 
whom we go will not understand us, lay down our 
lives. Almost three hundred years has it appealed to 
mankind ; and though not with the success that should 
have followed upon the labor of those who have toiled 
for the salvation of men, yet has it not been rejected ev¬ 
erywhere, nor has the labor been in vain. The fruit 
that has come of the seed sown is great and abundant. 
In every corner of the earth are there now those who 
name the name of Christ. And in every place are there 
many more, than meet the eye, who read our gospels, 
believe in them, and rejoice in the virtue and the hope 
which have taken root in their souls. Here in Rome, 
0 Aurelian, are there multitudes of believers, whom the 
ear hears not, nor the eye sees, hidden away in the se¬ 
curity of this sea of roofs, whom the messengers of your 
power never could discover. Destroy us, you may ; 
sweep from the face of Rome every individual whom 
the most diligent search can find, from the gray-haired 
man of fourscore to the infant that can just lisp the 
name of Jesus, and you have not destroyed the Chris¬ 
tians; the Christian church still stands—not unharmed, 
but founded as before upon a rock, against which the 
powers of earth and hell can never prevail ; and soon 
as this storm shall have overblown, those other, and now 
secret, multitudes, of whom .1 speak, will come forth, 
and the wilderness of the church shall blossom again as 
1 5 VOL. II. 


170 


A U R E L I A N . 


a garden in the time of spring. God is working with 
us, and who therefore can prevail against us ! 

‘ Bring not then, Aurelian, upon your own soul; bring 
not upon Rome, the guilt that would attend this un¬ 
necessary slaughter. It can but defer for an hour or a 
day the establishment of that kingdom of righteousness, 
which must be established, because it is God’s, and he 
is laying its foundations and ouilding its W''al!s, Have 
pity too, great Emperor, upon this large multitu le ol 
those who embrace this faith, and who will not let it go 
for all the terrors of your courts and judges and en¬ 
gines ; they will all suffer the death of Macer ere they 
will prove false to their Master. Let not the horrors of 
that scene be renewed, nor the greater ones of an indis¬ 
criminate massacre. I implore your compassions, not 
for myself, but for these many thousands, who, by my 
ministry, have been persuaded to receive this faith. For 
them my heart bleeds ; them I would save from the 
death which impends. Yet it is a glorious and a happy 
death, to die for truth and Christ! It is better to die 
so, knowing that by such death the very church itself is 
profited, than to die in one’s own bed, and only to one’s 
self. So do these thousands think ; and whatever com¬ 
passion I may implore for them, they would each and 
all, were such their fate, go with cheerful step, as those 
who went to some marriage supper, to the axe, to the 
stake, or the cross. Christianity cannot die but with 
the race itself. Its life is bound up in the life of man, 
and man must be destroyed ere that can perish. Be¬ 
hold then, Aurelian, the labor that is thine!’ 

Soon as he had ceased, Porphyrins started from hi'* 
seat and said. 


AU R E LI A N . 


171 


‘ It is then, 0 Romans, just as it has ever been af¬ 
firmed. The Galileans are atheists ! They believe not 
in the gods of Rome, nor in any in whom mankind can 
ever have belief. I doubt not but they think themselves 
believers in a God. They think themselves to have 
found one better than others have; but upon any defini¬ 
tion, that I or you could give or understand, of atheism, 
they are atheists ! Their God is invisible ; he is a uni¬ 
versal spirit, like this circumambient air ; of no form, 
dwelling in no place. But how can that without ef¬ 
frontery be called a being, which is without body and 
form ; which is everywhere and yet nowhere ; which, 
from the beginning of the world has never been heard 
of, till by these Nazarenes he is now first brought to 
light, or, if older, exists in the dreams of the dreaming 
Jews, whose religion, as they term it, is so stuffed with 
fable, that one might not expect, after the most exact 
and laborious search, to meet with so much as a grain of 
truth. Yet, whatever these Galileans may assert, their 
speech is hardly to be received as worthy of belief, when, 
in their very sacred records, such things are to be found 
as contradict themselves. For in one place — not to 
mention a thousand cases of the like kind — it is said 
that Jesus, the head of this religion, on a certain occa¬ 
sion walked upon the sea ; when, upon sifting the nar¬ 
rative, it is found that it was but upon a paltry lake, the 
lake of Galilee, upon which he performed that great 
feat!— a thing to which the magic of which he is accu¬ 
sed — and doubtless with justice — was plainly equal ; 
while to walk upon the sea might well have been be¬ 
yond that science. How much of what we have heard 
is to be distrusted also, concerning the love which these 



m 


A U R E L I A N . 


Nazarenes bear to Rome. We may well pray to be de¬ 
livered from the affection of those, whose love manifests 
itself in the singular manner of seeking our destruction. 
He who loves me so well as to poison me that I may 
have the higher enjoyment of Elysium, I could hardly 
esteem as a well-wisher or friend. These Jewish fana¬ 
tics love us after somewhat the same fashion. In the 
zeal of their affection they would make us heirs of what 
they call their heavenly kingdom, but in the meanwhile 
destroy our religion, deprive us of our ancient gods, and 
sap the foundations of the state. 

‘ Romans, in spite of all you have heard of another 
sort, I hope you will still believe that experience is one 
of your most valuable teachers, and that therefore you 
will be slow to forsake opinions which have the sanc¬ 
tion of venerable age, under which you have flourished 
so happily, and your country grown to so amazing a 
height of glory and renown. I think you would deserve 
the fate which this new-made religion would bring you 
to, if you abandoned the. worship of a thousand years., 
for the presumptuous novelty of yesterday. Not a name 
of greatness or honor can be quoted of those who have 
adorned this foreign fiction ; while all the great and 
good of Greece and Rome, philosophers, moralists, his¬ 
torians, and poets, are to be found on the side of Hellen¬ 
ism. If we cast from us that which we have experi¬ 
enced to be good, by what rule and on what principle 
can we afterward put our trust in anything else ? And 
it is considerable, that which has ever been asserted of 
this people, and which I doubt not is true, that they have 
ever been prying about with their doctrines and their 
mysteries among the poor and humbler sort, among wo- 


A TI R E L I A N . 


173 


men, slaves, simple and unlearned folks, while they ha\ e 
never appea ed to, nor made any converts of, ihe great 
and the learned, who alone are capable of judging of 
the truth of such things. 

‘ Who are the believers here in Rome ? Who knows 
them? Are the sacred Senate Christians? or any dis¬ 
tinguished for their rank ? No ; with exceptions, too 
few to be noticed, those who embrace it are among the 
dregs of the people, men wholly incapable of separating 
true from false, and laying properly the safe foundations 
of a new religion — a work too great even for philoso¬ 
phers. And not only does this religion draw to itself 
the poor and humble and ignorant, but the base and 
wicked also ; persons known, while of our way, to have 
been notorious for their vices, have all of a sudden join¬ 
ed themselves to the Christians ; and whatever show of 
sanctity may then have been assumed, we may well 
suppose there has not been much of the reality. Long 
may it boast of such members, and while its brief life 
lasts make continually such converts from us. As to the 
amazing pretences they make of their benevolence in 
the care of the poor, and even of our poor, doing more 
offices of kindness toward them—so it is affirmed — 
than we ourselves — who does not see the motive that 
prompts so much charity, in the good opinion they build 
up for themselves in those whom they have so much o- 
bliged, and who cannot in decency do less afterward 
than oblige them in turn, by joining their superstitions 
— superstitions of which they know nothing before 
they adopt them, and as little afterward. 

‘ But I will not, 0 Emperor, weary out your patience 

15 * 


VOL. IL 


174 


A U R E L I A W 


ngain — already so long tried — and will only say, that 
the fate which has all along and everywhere befallen 
these people, might well warn them that they are objects 
of the anger rather than the favor and love of the Lord 
of Heaven, of which they so confidently make their 
boast. For if he loved them would he leave them eve¬ 
rywhere so to the rage and destruction of their enemies 
•— to be reviled, trodden upon, and despised, all over the 
earth ? If these be the signs of love, what are those of 
hate ? And can it be that he, their Lord of Heaven, 
hath in store for them a world of bliss beyond this life, 
who gives them here on earth scarce the sordid shelter 
of a cabin ? In truth, they seem to be a community 
living upon their imaginations. They fancy themselves 
favorites of Heaven — though all the world thinks oth¬ 
erwise. They fancy themselves the greatest benefactors 
the world has ever seen, while they are the only ones 
who think so. They have nothing here but persecu¬ 
tion, contempt, and hatred, and yet are anticipating a 
more glorious Elysium than the greatest and best of 
earth have ever dared to hope for. We cannot but hope 
they may be at some time the riddle to themselves which 
they are to us. This is a benevolent wish, for their en¬ 
tertainment would be great.’ 

When he had ended, and almost before, many voices 
were heard of those who wished to speak, and Probus 
rose in his place to reply to what had fallen from the 
philosopher, but all were alike silenced by the loud and 
stern command of Aurelian, who, evidently weary and 
impatient of further audience of what he was so little 
willing to hear at all, cried out, saying, 

‘ The Christians, Romans, have now been heard, as 


A U R E L I A N . 


175 


they desired, by one whom they themselves appointed to 
set forth their doctrine. This is no school for the dispu¬ 
tations of sophists or philosophers or fanatics. Let Ro¬ 
mans and Christians alike withdraw.’ 

Whereupon, without further words or delay, the as¬ 
sembly broke up. 


It was not difficult to see that the statements and rea¬ 
sonings of Probus had fallen upon many who heard 
them with equal surprise and delight. Every word that 
he uttered was heard with an eager attention I never be¬ 
fore saw equaled. I have omitted the greater part of 
what he said, especially where he went with minuteness 
into an account of the history, doctrine, and precept of 
our faith, knowing it to be too familiar to you to make 
it desirable to have it repeated. 

It was in part at least owing to an unwillingness to 
allow Probus again to address that audience, represent¬ 
ing all the rank and learning of Rome, that the Empe¬ 
ror so hastily dissolved the assembly. Whatever effect 
the hearing of Probus may have upon him or upon us, 
there is reason to believe that its effects will be deep and 
abiding upon the higher classes of our inhabitants. 
They then heard what they never heard before — a full 
and an honest account of what Christianity is ; and, 
from what I have already been informed, and gathered 
indeed from my own observation at the time, they now 
regard it with very different sentiments. 

When, late in the evening of this day, we conversed 
of its events. Probus being seated with us, we indulged 
both in those cheering and desponding thoughts which 


176 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


seeni to be strangely mingled together in our present 
calamities. 

‘ No opinion,’ said Julia, ‘ has been more strongly 
confirmed within me by this audience before Aurelian, 
than this, that it has been of most auspicious influence 
upon our faith. Not that some have not been filled 
with a bitterer spirit than before ; but that more have 
been favorably inclined toward us by the disclosures. 
Probus, which you made ; and whether they become 
Christians or not eventually, they will be far more 
ready to defend us in our claim for the common rights 
of citizen?-. Marcellinus, who sat near me, was of this 
number. He expressed frequently, in most emphatic 
terms, his surprise at what he heard, which, he said, he 
was constrained to admit as true and fair statements, 
seeing they were supported and corroborated by my and 
your presence and silence. At the close he declared 
his purpose to procure the gospels for his perusal.’ 

‘ And yet,’ said I, ‘ the late consul Capitolinus, who 
was at my side, and whose clear and intelligent mind 
is hardly equaled here in Rome, was confirmed —even 
as Porphyrins was, or pretended to be — in all his pre¬ 
vious unfavorable impressions. He did not disguise his 
opinion, but freely said, that in his judgment the relig¬ 
ion ought to be suppressed, and that, though he should 
by no means defend any measures like those which he 
understood Aurelian had resolved to put in force, he 
should advocate such action in regard to it, as could 
not fail to expel it from the empire in no very grea. 
number of years.’ 

‘ I could observe,’ added Probus, ‘ the same difference? 
of feeling and judgment all over the surface of that sea 


A TJ R E L I A N . 


177 


fac'js. But if I should express my belief as to the 
proportion of friends and enemies there present, I should 
not hesitate to say—and that I am sure without any 
imposition upon my own credulity — that the greater 
part by far were upon our side — not in faith as you 
may suppose — but in that good opinion of us, and oi 
the tendencies of our doctrine and the value of our ser 
vices, that is very near it, and is better than the public 
profession of Christ of many others.’ 

‘It will be a long time, I am persuaded,’ said Julia, 
‘ before the truths received then into many minds will 
cease to operate in our behalf. But what think you 
was the feeling of Aurelian ? His countenance was 
hidden from me — yet that would reveal not much. It 
is immovable at those times, when he is deeply stirrred, 
or has any motive to conceal his sentiments.’ 

‘ I cannot believe,’ replied Probus, ‘ that any impres¬ 
sion, such as we could wish, was made upon that hard 
and cruel heart. Not the brazen statue, against the base 
of which he leaned, stood in its place more dead to what¬ 
ever it was that came from my lips than he. He has 
not been moved, we may well believe, to change any of 
his designs. Whatever yesterday it was in his intent to 
do, he will accomplish tomorrow. I do not believe we 
have anything to hope at his hands.’ 

‘ Alas, Lucius !’ said Julia, ‘ that our faith in Christ, 
and our interest and concern for its progress in Borne, 
should after all come to this. How happy was I in Sy¬ 
ria, with this belief as my bosom companion and friend; 
and free, too, to speak of it, to any and to all. How 
needless is all the misery which this rude, unlettered 
tyrant is about to inflict! How happily for all, would 


\7S 


A U K E L 1 A N . 


thing’s take their course even here, might they but be 
left to run in those natural channels which would reveal 
themselves, and which would then conduct to those ends 
which the Divine Providence has proposed. t3ut man 
wickedly interposes ; and a misery is inflicted, which 
otherwise would have never fallen upon us, and which 
in the counsels of God was never designed. What now 
think you. Probus, will be the event ?’ 

‘ I cannot doubt,’ he replied, ‘ that tomorrow will wit¬ 
ness all that report has already spread abroad as the 
purpose of Aurelian. Urged on by both Pronto and 
Varus, he will not pause in his course. Rome, ere the 
Ides, will swim in Christian blood. I see not whence 
deliverance is to come. Miracle alone could save us ; 
and miracle has long since ceased to be the order of 
Providence. Having provided for us this immense in¬ 
strument of moral reform in the authority and doctrine 
of Christ, we are now left, as doubtless it is on the 
whole best for our character and our virtues we should 
be, to our own unassisted strength, to combat with all 
the evils that may assail us, both from without and 
wuthin. For myself, I can meet this tempest without a 
thought of reluctance or dread. I am a solitary man ; 
having neither child nor relative to mourn my loss ; I 
have friends indeed, whom I love, and from whom I 
would not willingly part ; but, if any considerable pur¬ 
pose is to be gained by my death to that cause for 
which I have lived, neither I nor they can lament that 
t should occur. Under these convictions as to my own 
fate — and that of all, must I say and believe? no; I 
cannot, will not, believe that humanity has taken its final 
departure from the bosom of Aurelian —I turn to one 


A V R E L 1 A N . 


17£ 


bright spot, and there my thoughts dwell, and there njy 
hopes gather strength, and that is here where you, Piso, 
and you, lady, will still dwell, too high for the aim of 
the imperial murderer to reach. Here I shall believe 
will there be an asylum for many a wearied spirit, a 
safe refuge from the sharp pelting of the storm without 
And when a calm shall come again, from beneath this 
roof, as once from the ark of God, shall there go forth 
those who shall again people the waste-places of the 
church, and change the wilderness of death into a fruit¬ 
ful garden full of the plants of Heaven.’ 

‘ That it is the present purpose of Aurelian to spare 
me,’ I answered, ‘ whatever provocation I may give him, 
I fully believe. He is true; and his word to that end, 
with no wish expressed on my part, has been given. 
But do not suppose that in that direction at least he 
may not change his purpose. Superstitiously mad as 
he now is, a mere plaything too in the bloody hands of 
Pronto — and nothing can well be esteemed as more in¬ 
secure than even my life, privileged and secure as it 
may seem. If it should occur to him, in his day or his 
night visions and dreams, that I, more than others, 
sh'ould be an acceptable offering to his god, my life would 
be to him but that of an insect buzzing around his ear ; 
and being dead by a blow, he would miss me no more. 
Still, let the mercy that is vouchsafed, whether great or 
little, be gratefully confessed.’ 

You then see, Fausta, the position in which your old 
friends now stand here in Rome. Who could have be¬ 
lieved, when we talked over our dangers in Palmyra, 
that greater and more dreadful still awaited us in our 
own home. It has come upon us with such sudden- 


180 


A C R E L I A N . 


ness that we can scarce believe it ourselves. Yet are 
vve prepared, with an even mind and a trusting faith, for 
whatever m*ay beti-de. 

It is happy for me, and for Julia, that our religion 
has fixed within us so firm a belief in a superintending 
Providence — who orders not only the greatest but the 
least events of life, who is as much concerned for the 
happiness and the moral welfare of the humblest indi* 
vidual, as he is for the orderly movement of a world — 
that we sit down under the shadows that overhang us, 
perfectly convinced that some end of good to the church 
or the world is to be achieved through these convul¬ 
sions, greater than could have been achieved in any 
other way. The Supreme Ruler, we believe, is infin¬ 
itely wise and infinitely good. But he would be neith¬ 
er, if unnecessary suffering were meted out to his crea¬ 
tures. This suffering then is not unnecessary. But 
through it, in ways which our sight now is not piercing 
enough to discern — but may hereafter be—shall a 
blessing redound both to the individuals concerned, to 
the present generation, and a remote posterity, which 
could not otherwise have been secured. This we must 
believe; or we must renounce all belief. 

Forget not to remember us with affection to Gracchus 
and Calpurnius. 


I also was present at the hearing of Probus. But ol 
that I need say nothing; Piso having so fully written 
concerning it to the daughter of Gracchus. 

Early on the following day I was at the Gardens of 



AU R E L I A N . 


181 


Sallust, where I was present both with the Emperor 
and Livia, and ,vith the Emperor and Pronto, and 
beard conversations which I here record. 

When I entered the apartment, in which it was cus¬ 
tomary for the Empress to sit at this time of the day, I 
found her there engaged upon her embroidery, while 
the Emperor paced back and forth, his arms crossed be¬ 
hind him, and care and anxiety marked upon his coun¬ 
tenance. Livia, though she sat quietly at her work, 
seemed ill at ease, and as if some thought were busy 
within, to which she would gladly give utterance. She 
was evidently relieved by my entrance, and immediately 
made her usual inquiries after the health of the Queen, 
in which Aurelian joined her. 

Aurelian then turned to me and said, 

‘ I saw you yesterday at the Palatine, Nicomachus ; 
what thought you of the Christian’s defence ? ’ 

‘It did not convert me to his faith—’ 

‘ Neither, by the gods ! did it me,’ quickly interrup¬ 
ted Aurelian. 

‘ But,’ I went on, ‘ it seemed to show good cause why 
they should not be harshly or cruelly dealt wdth. He 
proved them to be a harmless people, if not positively 
profitable to the state.’ 

‘ I do not see that,’ replied the Emperor. ‘ It is im¬ 
possible they should be harmless who sap the founda¬ 
tions of religion ; it is impossible they should be profit¬ 
able w'ho seduce from their allegiance the good subjects 
of the empire ; and this religion of the Christians does 
both.’ 

‘ I agree that it is so,’ I rejoined, ‘ if it is to be as 
16 VOL. II. 


182 


A U R E I- I A N . 


sumed in the controversy that the prevailing religion 0 / 
the Romans is a perfect one, and that any addition or 
alteration is necessarily an evil. That seems to oe liie 
position of Porphyrins and others. But to that 1 can 
by no means assent. It seems to me that the religions 
of mankind are susceptible of improvement as govern- 
njents are, and other like institutions; that what may 
be perfectly well suited to a nation in one stage of its 
growth, may be very ill adapted to another ; that the 
gods in their providence accordingly design that one 
form of religious worship and belief should in successive 
ages be superseded by others, which shall be more ex¬ 
actly suited to their larger growth, and more urgent and 
very different necessities. The religion of the early 
days of Rome was perhaps all that so rude a people were 
capable of comprehending — all that they wanted. It 
worked well for them, and you have reason for gratitude 
that it was bestowed upon them, and has conferred so 
great benefits upon the preceding centuries. But the 
light of the sun is not clearer than it is that, for this 
present passing age, that religion is stark naught.’ 

The Emperor frowned, and stood still in his walk, 
looking sternly upon me ; but I heeded him not. 

‘ Most, of any intelligence and reflection,’ I continued, 

‘ spurn it away from them as fit but for children and 
slaves. Must they then be without any principle of 
this kind ? Is it safe for a community to grow up with¬ 
out faith in a superintending power, from whom they 
come, to whom they are responsible ? I think not. In 
any such community — and Rome is becoming such 9 
one — the elements of disruption anarchy, and ruin, 
are there at work, and will overthrow it. A society 0 ' 


A U K E L I A N . 


183 


Rtlieists is a contradiction in terms. Atheists may live 
alone, but not together. Will you compel your subjects 
to become such ? If a part remain true to the ancient 
faith, and find it to be sufficient, will you deny to the 
other part the faith which they crave, and which would 
be sufficient for them ? I doubt if that w'ere according 
to the dictates of wisdom and philosophy. And how 
know you, Aurelian, that this religion of Christ may 
not be the very principle which, and which alone, may 
save your people from atheism, and your empire from 
the ruin that would bring along in its train ? ’ 

‘ I cannot deny,’ said the Emperor in reply, ‘ that 
there is some sense and apparent truth in what you have 
said. But to me it is shadowy and intangible. It is 
the speculation of that curious class among men, who, 
never satisfied with what exists, are always desiring 
some new forms of truth, in religion, in government, 
and all subjects of that nature. I could feel no more 
certain of going or doing right by comforming to their 
theories, than I feel now in adhering to what is already 
established. Nay, I can see safety nowhere but in 
what already is. There is the only certainty. Sup¬ 
pose some enthusiast in matters of government were to 
propose his system, by which the present established 
insiitutions were all to be abandoned and new ones set 
up, should I permit him to go freely among the people, 
puzzling their heads with what it is impossible they 
should understand, and by his sophistries alienating them 
from their venerable parent ? Not so, by Hercules ! I 
should ill deserve my office of supreme guardian of 
the honor and liberties of Rome, did I not mew him uf 


184 


A U R E L I A N. 


in the Fabrician dungeons, or send him lower still to 
the Stygian shades.’ 

‘ But,’ said Livia, who had seemed anxious to speak. 
‘ though it may be right, and best for the interests of 
Rome, to suppress this new worship, yet why, Aurelian, 
need it be done at such expense of life ? Can no way 
be devised by which the professors of this faith shall be 
banished, for instance, the realm, and no new teachers of 
it permitted to enter it afterward but at the risk of life, oi 
some other appointed penalty ? Sure I am, from what 1 
heard from the Christian Probus, and what I have heard 
so often from the lips of Julia, this people cannot be the 
sore in the body of the state which Fronto represents 
them.’ 

‘ I cannot, Livia,’ replied the Emperor, ‘ refuse to 
obey what to me have been warnings from the gods.’ 

‘ But may not the heavenly signs have been read 
amiss ? ’ rejoined Livia. 

‘ There is no truth in augury, if my duty be net 
where I have placed it,’ answered Aurelian. 

‘ And perhaps, Aurelian,’ said the Empress, there is 
none. I have heard that the priests of the temples play 
many a trick upon their devout worshippers.’ 

‘ Livia, it has doubtless been so; but you would not 
believe that Fronto has trifled with Aurelian ? ’ 

‘ I believe Fronto capable of any crime by which the 
gods may be served. Have you not heard, Aurelian 
what fell from the dying Christian’s lips ? ’ 

‘ I have, Livia; and have cast it from me as at best 
the coinage of a moonstruck mountebank. Shall the 
word of such a one as Macer the Christian, unseat my 


A U R E L I A N . 


iS5 

trust in such a one as Fronto? That were not rea¬ 
sonable, Livia.’ 

‘ Then, Aurelian, if not for any reason that I can 
give, for the love you bear me, withhold your hand 
from this innocent people. You have often asked me 
to crave somewhat which it would be hard for you to 
grant, that you might show how near you hold me. 
Grant me this favor, and it shall be more to me than if 
you gave me the one half the empire.’ 

The Emperor’s stern countenance relaxed, and wore 
for a moment that softened expression, accompanied 
by a smile, that on his face might be be termed beau¬ 
tiful. He was moved by the unaffected warmth and 
winning grace with which those words were spoken by 
Livia. But he only said, 

‘ I love thee, Livia, as thou knowest, — but not so 
well as Rome or the gods.’ 

‘ I would not, Aurelian,’ replied the Empress, ‘ that 
love of me should draw you away from what you owe 
to Rome — from what is the clear path of a monarch’s 
duty; but this seems at best a doubtful case. They 
who are equally Roman in their blood differ here. It 
is not wrong to ask you, for my sake, to lean to the side 
of mercy.’ 

‘ You are never wrong, Livia. And were it only 
right to — ’ 

‘ But are you not, Aurelian, always sure of being right 
in being merciful? Can it ever afterward repent you 
that you drew back from the shedding of blood ? ’ 

‘ It is called mercy, Livia, when he who has the power 
spares the culprit, forgives the offence, and sends him 

16^ VOL. II. 


186 


A U R E L I A N . 


from the gibbet or the cross back to his weeping friends. 
The crowds throw up their caps and shout as for some 
great and good deliverance. But the mercy that returns 
upon the world a villain, whose crimes had richly earned 
for him his death, is hardly a doubtful virtue. Though, 
as is well known, I am not famed for mercy, yet were it 
clear to me what in this case were the truest mercy — 
for the pleasure, Livia, of pleasuring thee, I would be 
merciful. But I should not agree with thee in what is 
mercy. It were no mercy to Rome, as I judge, to spare 
these Christians, whatever the grace might be to them. 
Punishment is often mercy. In destroying these 
wretches I am merciful both to Rome and to the world, 
and shall look to have their thanks.’ 

- ‘ There com.es, Aurelian,’ said Livia, rising, ‘ thy evil 
genius — thy ill-possessing demon — who has so changed 
the kindly current of thy blood. I would that he, who 
so loves the gods, were with them. I cannot wait him.’ 

With these words Livia rose and left the apartment, 
just as Fronto entered in another direction. 

‘Welcome, Fronto!’ said Aurelian. ‘How thrive 
our affairs ?’ 

‘ As we could wish, great Emperor. The city with 
us, and the gods with us, — we cannot but prosper. A 
few days will see great changes.’ 

‘ How turns out the tale of Curio ? What find you 
to be the truth ? Are the Christians here, or are they 
fled ? ’ 

‘ His tale was partly false and partly true. More are 
fled than Piso or the Christians will allow ; but doubt¬ 
less the greater part, by large odds, remain.’ 

‘ That is well. Then for the other side of this great 


A U R E L I A N . 


1S7 


iuty. Is thine own house purged ? Is the te%ple, 
new and of milk-white marble, now as clean and white 
in its priesthood ? Have those young sots and pimps 
yet atoned for their foul impieties ? ’ 

‘ They have,’ replied Pronto. ‘ They have been dealt 
with ; and their carcases swinging and bleaching in the 
wind will long serve I trust to keep us sweet. The 
temple, I now may believe, is thoroughly swept.’ 

‘ And how is it. Pronto, with the rest ? ’ 

‘ The work goes on. Your messengers are abroad; 
and it will be neither for want of power, will, nor zeal, 
if from this time Hellenism stands not before the world 
as beautiful in her purity as she is venerable in years 
and truth.’ 

‘ The gods be praised that I have been stirred up to 
this ! When this double duty shall be done, Hellenism 
reformed, and her enemy extinct, then may I say that 
life has not been spent for naught. But meanwhile. 
Pronto, the army needs me. All is prepared, and letters 
urge me on. To-morrow I would start for Thrace. Yet 
it cannot be so soon.’ 

‘ No,’ said the priest. ‘ Rome will need you mo-re 
than Thrace, till the edicts have been published, and the 
work well begun. Then, Aurelian, may it be safely en¬ 
trusted, so far as zeal and industry shall serve, to those 
behind.’ 

‘ I believe it. Pronto. I see myself doubly reflected 
in thee : and almost so in Varus. The Christians, were 
[ gone, would have four Aurelians for one. Well, let 
us rejoice that piety is not dead. The sacrifice this 
morning was propitious. I feel its power in every 
thought and movement.’ 


188 


A U R E L I A N . 


‘ 6ut while all things else seem propitious, Aurelian^ 
one keeps yet a dark and threatening aspect.’ 

‘ What mean you ? ’ 

‘ Piso ! — ’ 

‘ Pronto, I have in that made known my will, and 
more than once. Why again dispute it ? ’ 

‘ I know no will, great Caesar, that may rightly cros^t 
or surmount that of the gods. They, to me, are su 
preme, not Aurelian.’ 

Aurelian moved from the priest, and paced the room. 

‘ I see not, Pronto, with such plainness the will of 
Heaven in this.’ 

‘ ’Tis hard to see the divine will, when the human 
will and human affections are so strong.’ 

‘ My aim is to please the gods in all things,’ replied 
the Emperor. 

‘ Love too, Aurelian, blinds the eye, and softening the 
heart toward our fellow, hardens it toward the gods.’ 
This he uttered with a strange significancy. 

‘ I think. Pronto, mine has been all too hard toward 
man, if it were truly charged. At least, of late, the 
gods can have no ground of blame.’ 

‘ Rome,’ replied the priest, ‘ is not slow to see and 
praise the zeal that is now crowning her seven hills with 
a greater glory than ever yet has rested on them. Let 
her see that her great son can finish what has been so 
well begun.’ 

‘ Pronto, I say it, but I say it with some inward pain, 
that were it plain the will of the gods were so —’ 

‘ Piso should die ! ’ eagerly interrupted the priest. 

‘ I will not say it yet, Pronto.’ 

‘ I see not why Aurelian should stagger at it If the 


A U R E L I A N . 


\S9 

will of the gods is in this vvhoi'.e enterprise; if they vvif 
that these hundreds and thousands, these crowds ol 
young and old, little children and tender youth, sho»ild 
all perish, that posterity by such sacrifice now in the 
beginning may be delivered from the curse that were 
else entailed upon them, then who can doubt, to whom 
truth is the chief thing, that they will, nay, and ordain 
in their sacred breasts, that he who is their chief and 
head, about whom others cluster, from whose station 
and power they daily draw fresh supplies of courage, 
should perish too ; nay, that he should be the first great 
offering, that so, the multitudes who stay their weak 
faith on him, may, on his loss, turn again unharmed to 
their ancient faith. That too, were the truest mercy.’ 

‘ There may be something in that. Pronto. Never¬ 
theless, I do not yet see so much to rest upon one life. 
If all the rest were dead, and but one alive, and he Piso, 
I see not but the work were done.’ 

‘ A thousand were better left, Aurelian, than Piso 
and the lady Julia ! They are more in the ears and 
eyes of Rome than all the preachers of this accursed 
tribe. They are preaching, not on their holydays to a 
mob of beggarly knaves, men and women dragged up 
by their hot and zealous caterers from the lanes and 
kennels of the city, within the walls of their filthy syn¬ 
agogues, but they preach every day, to the very princes 
and nobles of the state — at the capitol to the Senate —■ 
here in thy palaces to all the greatest and best of Rome 
and, by the gods ! as I believe, make more converts tc 
their impieties than all the army of their atheisti¬ 
cal priesthood. Upon Probus, Piso, and Julia, hang 
the Christians of Rome. Hew them away, and the 


190 


A U R E L I A N . 


branches die. Probus, ere to-morrow’s sun is set, feeds 
the beasts of the Flavian — then —’ 

‘ Hold, Fronto! I will no more of it now. I have, 
besides, assured Piso of his safety.’ 

‘ There is no virtue like that of those, who, having 
erred, repent.’ 

Aurelian looked for the moment as if he would wil¬ 
lingly have hurled Fronto, and his temple after him, to 
Tartarus. But the bold man heeded him not. 

‘ Shall 1,’ he continued, ‘ say what it is that thus ties 
the hands of the conqueror of the world ? ’ 

‘ Say what thou wilt.’ 

‘ Rome says, I say it not —but Rome says, ’tis love.’ 

‘ What mean they ? I take you not. Love ?’ 

‘ Of the princess Julia, still so called.’ 

A deep blush burned upon the cheek of Aurelian. 
He paused a moment, as if for some storm within to 
subside. He then said, in his deep tone, that indicates 
the presence of the whole soul — but without passion— 

‘ Fronto, ’tis partly true — truer than I wish it were. 
When in Syria my eye first beheld her, I loved her — 
as I never loved before, and never shall again. But not 
for the Emperor of the world would she part from young 
Piso. I sued, as man never sued before, but all in vain. 
Her image still haunts the chambers of my brain ; yet, 
with truth do I say it, but as some pure vision sent from 
the gods. I confess, Fronto, it is she who stands be¬ 
tween me and the will of Heaven. I know not what 
force, but that of all the gods, could make me harm her. 
To no other ear has this ever been revealed. She is to 
me god and goddess.’ 

‘ Now, Aurelian, that thou has spoken in the fullness 


AURE L I A N. 


191 


3f thy heart, do I hold thee redeemed from the invisible 
tyrant. In our own hearts we sin and err, as we dare 
not when the covering is off, and others can look in and 
see how weak we are. Thou canst not, great Caesar, 
for this fondness forget and put far from thee the vision 
of thy mother, whom, in dreams or in substantial shape, 
the gods sent down to revive thy fainting zeal ! Let it 
not be that that call shall have been in vain.’ 

‘ Pronto, urge now no more. Hast thou seen Varus ?’ 

‘ I have.’ 

‘ Are the edicts ready ? ’ 

‘ They are.’ 

‘ Again then at the hour of noon let them glare forth 
upon the enemies of Rome from the columns of the 
capitol. Let Varus he so instructed. Now I would be 
alone.’ 

Whereupon the priest withdrew, and I also rose from 
where I had sat, to take my leave, when the Emperrr 
said, 

‘ This seems harsh to thee, Nicomachus ? ’ 

‘ I cannot but pray the gods,’ I said, ‘ to change the 
mind of Aurelian ! ’ 

‘ They have made his mind what it is, Nicomachus.’ 

‘ Not they,’ I said, ‘ hut Pronto.’ 

‘ But,’ he quickly added, ‘ the gods made Pronto, and 
have put their mind in him, or it has never been known 
on earth. You know not the worth, Greek, of this 
man. Had Rome possessed such a one two hundred 
years ago, this work had not now to be done.’ 

Saying which, he withdrew into his inner apartment, 
and I sought again the presence of Livia. 


192 


AU RE LIAN. 


LETTER XI. 

FROM PISO TO FAUSTA. 

A DAY has passed, Fausta, since the hearing of 
Probus, and I hasten to inform you of its events. 

But, first of all, before I enter upon the dark chapter 
of our calamities, let me cheer you and myself by dwel¬ 
ling a moment upon one bright and sunny spot. Early 
in the day we were informed that Isaac was desirous to 
see us. He was at once admitted. As he entered, it 
was easy to see that some great good fortune had be¬ 
fallen him. His face shone through the effect of some 
inward joy, and his eyes sparkled in their deep sockets 
like burning tapers. When our customary salutations 
and inquiries were over, Julia said to him, 

‘ I think, Isaac, you must have sold a jewel this morn¬ 
ing to no less a person than Aurelian, if the face may 
be held as an index of good or evil fortune.’ 

‘ I have parted with no jewel, lady,’ he replied, ‘ but 
there has fallen into my hands a diamond of inestimable 
value, drawn from those mines of the Orient, which I 
may say, not all the wealth of Aurelian could purchase 
of me. Whenever I shall receive such permission, it 
will give me highest delight to show it to thee.’ 

‘ Only a single jewel, Isaac ? ’ said Julia. ‘ Is it 
but one stone that so transports thee, and makes thy 
.‘ace that of a young man ?’ 

‘ Lady, to confess the truth, there are four— four liv 


A U R E L I A N. 


193 


ing stones and precious — more precious than any that 
of old blazed upon the breasipiate of our high-priest- 
Princess, I have come to tell thee and Piso what none 
in Rome besides, as I think, would care to know — and 
strange it is that you Christians should be those whom 
1, a Jew, most love, and that I, an old and worn-out man, 
should fill any space, were it no bigger than a grain ol 
wheat, in your regards— I have come to tell you what 
you have already discovered, that Hagar is arrived with 
the young Ishmael, and with them two dark-eyed 
daughters of Israel, who are as welcome as the others. 
There is not now, Piso, within the walls of Rome a 
dwelling happier than mine. Soon as leisure and incli¬ 
nation shall serve, come, if you will do us such grace, 
to the street Janus, and behold our contentment. Sorry 
am I that the times come laden to you with so ms^ny 
terrors. Piso,’ continued he, in a more earnest tone, 
and bending tow'ard me, ‘ rely upon the word of one 
who is rarely deceived, and who now tells thee, there 
is a sword hanging over thy head ! Pronto thirsts for 
thy life, and thine, lady ! and Aurelian, much as he 
may love you, is, as we have already seen, not proof 
against the violent zeal of the priest. Come to the 
street Janus, and I will warrant you safety and life. 
There is none for you here — nor in Rome — if Aurel- 
ian’s hounds can scent you.’ 

We were again obliged to state, with all the force we 
could give to them, the reasons which bound us to re¬ 
main, not only in Rome, but in our own dwelling, and 
await whatever the times might bring forth. He was 
again slow to be convinced, so earnestly does he desire 
17 VOL. II. 


194 


A U R E L I A N . 


our safety. But at length he was persuaded that he 
himself would take the same course were he called up¬ 
on to defend the religion of his fathers. He then de¬ 
parted, having first exacted a promise that we would 
soon see his new family. 

Soon as Isaac was gone I sought the streets. 

Rome, Fausta, has put on the appearance of the Sat¬ 
urnalia. Although no license of destruction has yet 
been publicly given, the whole city is in commotion — 
the lower orders noisy and turbulent, as if they had al¬ 
ready received their commission of death. Efforts have 
been made, both on the part of the senate and that of 
the nobles who are not of that body, joined by many of 
all classes, to arrest the Emperor in his murderous ca¬ 
reer, but in vain. Not the Seven Hills are more firmly 
rooted in the earth, than he in his purposes of blood. 
This is well known abroad ; and the people are the 
more emboldened in the course they take. They know 
well that Aurelian is supreme and omnipotent ; that no 
power in Rome can come in between him and his ob- 
iect, whatever it may be ; and that they, therefore, 
.aough they should err through their haste, and in their 
<,eal even go before the edicts, would find in him a le¬ 
nient judge. No Christian was accordingly to be now 
seen in the streets — for nowhere were they safe from 
the ferocious language, or even the violent assaults, of 
the mob. These cruel executioners I found all along, 
wherever I moved, standing about in groups as if impa¬ 
tiently awaiting the hour of noon, or else gathered about 
the dwellings of well-known Christians, assailing the 
buildings with stones, and the ears of their pent-up in- 
habitanls with all that variety of imprecation they so 


A U R E LI A N . 


195 


well know how to use. It was almost with sensations 
of guilt that I walked the streets of Kome in safety, 
bearing a sort of charmed life, while these thousands of 
my friends were already suffering more through their 
horrible anticipation, than they would when they should 
come to endure the reality. But, although I passed 
along uninjured by actual assault, the tongue was freely 
let loose upon me, and promises were abundantly lav¬ 
ished that, before many days were gone, not even the 
name of Piso, nor the favor of Aurelian, should save 
me from the common doom. 

As the hour of noon drew nigh, it seemed as if the 
entire population of Rome was pouring itself into the 
streets and avenues leading to the capitol. Not the 
triumph of Aurelian itself filled this people with a more 
absorbing, and, as it appeared, a more pleasing interest, 
than did the approaching calamities of the Christians. 
Expectation was written on every face. Even the boys 
threw up their caps as in anticipation of somewhat that 
was to add greatly to their happiness. 

The sixth hour has come and is gone. The edicts 
are published, and the Christians are now declared 
enemies of the state and of the gods, and are required to 
be informed against by all good citizens, and arraigned 
before the Prefect and the other magistrates especially 
appointed for the purpose. 

All is now confusion, uproar, and cruel violence. 

No sooner was the purport of the edicts ascertained 
by the multitudes who on this occasion, as before; 


196 


A U R E LI A N . 


thronged the capitol, than they scattered in pursuit of 
their victims. The priests of .the temples heading the 
furious crowds, they hastened from the hill in every 
direction, assailing, as they reached them, the houses o‘ 
the Christians, and dragging the wretched inhabitants 
to the presence of their barbarous judges. Although in 
the present edicts the people are not let loose as author¬ 
ized murderers upon the Christians, they are neverthe¬ 
less exhorted and required to inform against them and 
bring them before the proper tribunals on the charge of 
Christianity, so that there is lodged in their hands a 
fearful power to harrass and injure — a power which is 
used as you may suppose Romans would use it. Every 
species of violence has this day been put in practice 
upon this innocent people ; their perpetrators feeling 
sure that, in the confusion, deeds at which even Varus 
or Aurelian might take offence will be overlooked. The 
tribunals have been thronged from noon till night with 
Christians and their accusers. As the examination of 
those who have been brought up has rarely occupied but 
a few moments, the evidence always being sufficiently 
full to prove them Christians, and, when that has beei 
wanting, their own ready confession supplying the defect 
— the prisons are already filling with their unhappy 
tenants, and extensive provisions are making to receive 
them in other buildings set apart for the time to this 
office. A needless provision. For it requires but little 
knowledge of Aurelian to know that his impatient tem¬ 
per will not long endure the tedious process of a reffular 
accusation, trial, condemnation, and punishment. A 
year, in that case, would scarce suffice to make way 
with the Christians of Rome. Long before the pri^^ons 


A TI R E L I A N . 


197 


can be emptied in a legal way of the tenants already 
crowding them, will the Emperor resort to the speedier 
method o: a general and indiscriminate massacre. No 
one can doubt this, who is familiar as I am with Aurel- 
lan, and the spirits who now rule him. 

Let me tell you now of the fate of Probus. 

He was seated within his own quiet home at the time 
the edicts were proclaimed from the steps of the capitol. 
The moment the herald who proclaimed them had pro¬ 
nounced the last word, and was affixing them to the 
column, the name of Probus was heard shouted from 
one side of the hill to the other, and, while the multitude 
scattered in every direction in pursuit of those who were 
known to them severally as Christians, a large division 
of it made on the instant for his dwelling. On arriving 
there, roused by the noise of the approaching throng, 
Probus came forth. He was saluted by cries and yells, 
that seemed rather to proceed from troops of wild beasts 
than men. He would fain have spoken to them, but no 
word would they hear. ‘ Away with the Christian dog 
to the Prefect ! ’ arose in one deafening shout from the 
people ; and on the instant he was seized and bound, 
and led unresisting away to the tribunal of Varus. 

As he was dragged violently along, and was now 
passing the door which leads to the room where Varus 
sits, Felix, the bishop, having already stood before the 
Prefect, was leaving the hall, urged along by soldiers 
who were bearing him to prison. 

‘ Be of good cheer, ProSus !’ 3xclaimed he ; ‘ a crown 


17=^ VOL. II. 


AURE LIAN . 


I 98 


awaits thee within. Rome needs thy life, and Christ 
thy soul.’ 

‘ Peace, dotard !’ cried one of those who guarded and 
led him ; and at the same moment brought his spear 
with such force upon his head that he felled him to the 
j^avement. 

‘ Thou hast slain thyself, soldier, by that blow rather 
than him,’ said Probus. ‘ Thine own faith has torments 
in reserve for such as thee.’ 

‘ Thou too! ’ cried the enraged soldier ; and he 
would have repeated the blow upon the head of the of¬ 
fender, but that the descending weapon was suddenly 
struck upwards, and out of the hand of him who wield¬ 
ed it, by another belonging to the same legion, who 
guarded Probus, saying as he did so, 

‘ Hold, Mutius ! it is not Roman to strike the bound 
and defenceless, Christians though they be. Raise that 
fallen old man, and apply such restoratives as the place 
affords.’ And then, with other directions to those who 
were subordinate to him, he moved on, bearing Probus 
with him. 

Others who had arrived before him, were standing 
in the presence of Varus, who was questioning them as 
to their faith in Christ. On the left hand of the Pre¬ 
fect, and on the right of those who were examined, 
stood a small altar surmounted by a statue of Jupiter, 
to which the Christians were required to sacrifice. But 
few words sufficed for the examination of such as were 
brought up. Upon being inquired of touching their 
faith, there was no waiting for witnesses, but as soon as 
the question was put, the arraigned person acknowl¬ 
edged at once his t arne and religion. He was then re* 


A U R E L I A N . 


199 


quired to sacrifice and renounce his faith, and forthwith 
he should be dismissed in safety, and with honor. This 
the Christian refusing steadfastly to do,, sentence of 
death was instantly pronounced against him, and he 
was remanded to the prisons to await the time of pun¬ 
ishment. 

Probus was now placed before the Prefect. When it 
was seen throughout the crowd which again filled the 
house, who it was that was arraigned for examination, 
there were visible signs of satisfaction all around, that 
he, who was in a manner the ringleader of the sect, was 
about to meet with his deserts. As the eye of Varus 
fell upon Probus, and he too became aware who it was 
that stood at his tribunal, he bent courteously towards 
him, and saluted him with respect. 

‘ Christian,’ said he, ‘ I sincerely grieve to see thee 
in such a pass. Ever since I met thee in the shop of 
the learned Publius have I conceived an esteem for thee, 
and would now gladly rescue thee from the danger that 
overhangs. Bethink thee now — thou art of too much 
account to die as these others. A better fate should be 
thine ; and I will stand thy friend.” 

‘ Were what thou sayest true,’ replied Probus, ‘ which 
I am slow to admit — for nobler, purer souls never lived 
on earth than have but now left this spot where I stand 
— it would but be a reason of greater force to me, why 
I should lose my life sooner than renounce my faith. 
What sacrifice can be too holy for the altar of the God 
whom I serve ? Would to God I were more worthy 
than I am to be offered up.’ 

‘ Verily,’ said Varus, ‘ you are a wonderful people. 
The more fitted you are to live happily to yourseb^es. 


200 


A U R E L I A N . 


and honorably to others, the readier you are to die. I 
behold in you, Probus, qualities that must make yo i 
useful here in Rome. Rome needs such as thyself. 
Say but the word, and thou art safe.’ 

‘ Could I in truth, Varus, possess the qualities thou 
impulest to me, were I ready on the moment to abandon 
what I have so long professed to honor and believe — 
abjuring, for the sake of a few years more of life, a 
faith which I have planted in so many other hearts, and 
which has already brought them into near neighbor¬ 
hood of a cruel death ? Couldst thou thyself afterward 
think of me but as of a traitor and a coward ? ’ 

‘ I never,’ said Varus, ‘ could do otherwise than es¬ 
teem one, who, however late, at length declared himself 
the friend of Rome ; and, more than others should I es¬ 
teem him, who, from being an enemy, became a friend. 
Even the Emperor, Probus, desires thy safety, [t is at 
his instance that I press thee.’ 

Probus bent his head and remained silent. The. peo¬ 
ple, taking it as a sign of acquiescence, cried out, many 
of them, ‘ See, he will sacrifice 

Varus too said, ‘ It needs not that the outward sign 
be made. We will dispense with it. The inward con¬ 
sent, Probus, shall suffice. Soldiers ! —’ 

‘ Hold, hold. Varus !’ cried Probus, rousing himself 
from a momentary forgetfulness. ‘ Think not, 0 Pre¬ 
fect, so meanly of me ! What have I said or done to 
induce such belief? I was but oppressed for a moment 
with grief and shame that I should be chosen out from 
among all the Christians in Rome as one whom soft 
words and bribes and the hope of life could seduce from 
Christ. Cease, Varus, then ; these words are vain. 


A U R E L I A N. 


201 


ach as I have been, I am, and shall be to the end — 
a Christian!’ 

‘To the rack with the Christian then!’ shouted 
many voices from the crowd. 

Varus enforced silence. 

‘ Probus,’ said he, as order was restored, ‘ I shall still 
hope the best for thee. Thou art of different stuff from 
him whom we first had before us, and leisure for reflec¬ 
tion may bring thee to another mind. I shall not 
therefore condemn thee cither to the rack or to death. 
Soldiers, bear him to the prisons at the Fabrician 
bridge.’ 

AVhereupon he was led from the tribunal, and con 
ducted by a guard to the place of his confinement. 


The fate of Probus we now regard as sealed. In 
what manner he will finally be disposed of it is vain 
to conjecture, so various are the ways, each one more 
ingenious in cruelty than another, in which Christians 
are made to suffer and die. Standing as he does, as 
virtually the head of the Christian community, we can 
anticipate for him a death only of more refined barbarity. 

Felix too, we learn, is confined in the same prison : 
and with him all the other principal Christians of Rome. 


We have visited Probus in his confinement You 
do not remember, Fausta, probably you never saw, the 
prison at the Fabrician bridge. It seems a city itself, 
so vast is it, and of so many parts, running upwards in 


202 


AU RE LIaN. 


walls and towers to a dizzy height, and downwards to 
unknown depths, where it spreads out in dungeons nev¬ 
er visited by the light of day. In this prison, now 
crowded with the Christians, did we seek our friend. 
We were at once, upon making known our want, shown 
to the cell in which he was confined. 

We found him, as we entered, seated and bending 
over a volume which he was reading, aided by the faint 
light afforded by a lamp which his jailer had furnished 
him. He received us with cheerfulness, and at his 
side on the single block of stone which the cell provided 
for its inmates, we sat and long conversed. I expressed 
my astonishment that the favor of a lamp had been al¬ 
lowed him. ‘ It is not in accordance,’ I said, ‘ with the 
usages of this place.’ 

‘ You will be still more amazed,’ he replied, ‘ when I 
tell you through whose agency I enjoy it.’ 

‘ You must inform us,’ we said, ‘ for we cannot guess.’ 

‘ Isaac’s ;’ he replied. ‘ At least I can think of no 
other to whom the description given me by the jailer cor¬ 
responds. He told me upon bringing it to me, that a 
kind-hearted old man, a Jew, as he believed him, had 
made inquiry about me, and had entreated earnestly for 
all such privileges and favors, as the customs of the place 
would allow. He has even procured me the blessing of 
this friendly light—and what is more yet and which fills 
me with astonishment—has sent me this volume, which 
is the true light. Can it be that Isaac has done all this, 
who surely never has seemed to regard me with much 
favor.’ 

‘ Never doubt that it is he,’ said Julia ; ‘ he has two 
natures, sometimes one is seen, sometimes the other — 


A U R E L I A N . 


203 


his Jew nature, and his human nature. His human 
heart is soft as a woman’s or a child’s. One so full of 
the spirit of lo^e I have never known. At times in his 
speech, you would think him a man bloody and severe 
as Aurelian himself; but in his deeds he is almost 
more than a Christian.’ 

‘ As the true circumcision,’ said Probus, ‘ is that of the 
heart, and as he is a Jew who is one inwardly, so is he 
only a Christian who does the deeds of one and has the 
heart of one. x4nd he who does those deeds, and has 
that heart—what matters it by what name he is called ? 
Isaac is a Christian, in the only important sense of the 
word—and, alas ! that it should be so, more than many 
a one who bears the name. But does this make Christ 
to be of none effect ? Not so. The natural light, which 
lightens every man who cometh into the world will, here 
and there, in every place, and in every age, bring forth 
those who shall show themselves in the perfection of 
their virtues to be of the very lineage of Heaven — true 
heirs of its glory. Isaac is such a one. But what 
then ? For one such, made by the light of nature, the 
gospel gives us thousands. But how is it, Piso, in the 
city ? Are the wolves still abroad ?’ 

‘ They are. The people have themselves turned in¬ 
formers, soldiers, and almost executioners. However 
large may be the proportion of the friendly or the neu¬ 
tral in the city, they dare not show themselves. The 
mob of those devoted to Aurelian constitutes now the 
true sovereignty of Rome — the streets are theirs — the 
courts are theirs—and anon the games will be theirs.^ 

‘ I am given to understand,’ said Probus, ‘ that to 


204 


A U R E L 1 A N. 


morrow I suffer ; yet have I received from the Prefect no 
warning to that effect. It is the judgment of my keeper. 

‘ I have heard the same,’ I answered, ‘ but I know not 
with what truth.’ 

‘ It can matter little to me,’ he replied, ‘ when the hour 
shall come, whether to-morrow or to-night.’ 

‘ It cannot,’ said Julia. ‘ Furnished with the wkole 
armor of the gospel, it will be an easy thing for you to 
encounter death.’ 

‘ It will, lady, believe me. I have many times fought 
with enemies of a more fearful front. The enemies of 
the soul are those whom the Christian most dreads. 
Death is but the foe of life. So the Christian may but 
live to virtue and God, he can easily make his account 
with death. It is not the pain of dying, nor the manner 
of it, nor any doubts or speculations about the life to 
come, which, at an hour like this, intrude upon the 
Christian’s thoughts.’ 

‘ And what then,’ asked Julia, as Probus paused and 
fell back into himself, ‘ is it that fills and agitates the 
mind ? for at such a moment it can scarcely possess it¬ 
self in perfect peace.’ 

‘ It is this,’ replied Probus. ‘ Am I worthy ? Have I 
wrought well my appointed task ? Have I kept the 
faith ? And is God my friend and Jesus my Saviour ? 
These are the thoughts that engross and fill the mind. 
It is busy with the past — and with itself. It has no 
thoughts to spare upon suffering and death — it has no 
doubts or fears to remove concerning immortality. The 
future life, to me, stands out in the same certainty as 
the present. Death is but the moment which connects 
the two. You say well, that at such an hour as this the 


« 


A U R E L I A N . 


205 


mind can 3Ccirce possess itself in perfect peace. Yet is 
it agitated by nothing that resembles fear. It is the 
agitation that must necessarily have place in the mindot 
one to whom a great trust has been committed for a long 
series of years, at that moment when he comes to sur¬ 
render it up to him from whom it was received. I have 
lived many years. Ten thousand opportunities of doing 
good to myself and others have been set before me. 
The world has been a wide field of action and labor, 
where I have been required to sow and till against the 
future harvest. Must I not experience solicitude about 
the acts and the thoughts of so long a career ? I may 
often have erred ; I must often have stood idly by the 
wayside ; I must many times have been neglectful, and 
forgetful, aud wilful ; I must often have sinned ; and it 
is not all the expected glory of another life, nor all the 
honor of dying in the cause of Christ, nor all the triumph 
of a martyr’s fate, that can or ought to stifle and overlay 
such thoughts. Still I am happy. Happy, not because 
I am in my own view worthy or complete, but because 
through Jesus Christ I am taught, in God, to see a 
Father. I know that in him I shall find both a just and a 
merciful judge ; and in him who was tempted even as 
we are, who was of our nature and exposed to our triais, 
shall I find an advocate and intercessor such as the soul 
needs. So that, if anxious as he who is human and fal¬ 
lible must ever be, I am nevertheless happy and con¬ 
tented. My voyage is ended ; the ocean of life is 
crossed , and I stand by the shore with joyful expecta¬ 
tions of the word that shall bid me land and enter into 
the haven of my rest.’ 

IS VOL. II. 


206 


A U R E L I A N . 


As Probus ended these words, a low and deep murmur 
or distant rumbling as of thunder caught our ears, 
which, as we listened, suddenly increased to a .errific 
roar of lions, as it were directly under our feet We 
instinctively sprang from where we sat, but were quieted 
at once by Probus : 

‘ There is no danger,’ said he ; ‘ they are not within 
our apartment, nor very near us. They are a company 
of Rome’s executioners, kept in subterranean dungeons, 
and fed with prisoners whom her mercy consigns to 
them. Sounds more horrid yet have met my ears, and 
may yours. Yet I hope not.’ 

But while he yet spoke, the distant shrieks of those 
who were thrust toward the den, into which from a high 
ledge they were to be plunged headlong, were borne to us, 
accompanied by the oaths and lashes of such as drove 
them, but which were immediately drowned by the louder 
roaring of the imprisoned beasts as they fell upon and 
fought for their prey. We sat mute and trembling with 
horror, till those sounds at length ceased to reverberate 
through the aisles and arches of the building. 

‘ 0 Rome !’ cried Probus, when they had died away, 
‘ how art thou drunk with blood ! Crazed by ambition, 
drunk with blood, drowned in sin, hardened as a mill¬ 
stone against all who come to thee for good, how shall 
thou be redeemed ? where is the power to save thee V 

‘ It is in thee ! ’ said Julia. ‘ It is thy blood. Probus, 
and that of these multitudes who suffer with thee, that 
shall have power to redeem Rome and the world. The 
blood of Jesus, first shed, startled the world in its 
slumbers of sin and death. Thine is needed now to 
sound another alarm, and rouse it yet once more. And 


A U R E L I A X . 


207 


even again and again may the same sacrifice be to be 
offered up.’ 

‘ True, lady,’ said Probus ; ‘ it is sj. And it is of that 
I should think. Those for whom I die should fill my 
thoughts, rather than any concern for my own happiness. 
If I might but be the instrument, by my death, of open¬ 
ing the eyes of this great people to their errors and their 
guilt, I should meet death with gratitude and joy.’ 

With this and such like conversation, Fausta, did we 
fill up a long interview with Probus. As we rose from 
our seats to take leave of him, not doubting that we then 
saw him and spoke to him for the last time, he yielded 
to the force of nature and wept. But this was but for a 
moment. Quickly restored to himself—if indeed when 
shedding those tears he were not more truly himself— 
he bade us farewell, saying with firmness and cheerful¬ 
ness as he did so, 

‘ Notwithstanding, Piso, the darkness of this hour an I 
of all the outward prospect, it is bright within. Fare¬ 
well ! — to meet as I trust in Heaven ! ’ 

We returned to the Coelian. 

When I parted from Probus, at the close of this inter¬ 
view, it was in the belief that I should never see him 
more. But I was once again in his dungeon, and then 
heard from him what I will now repeat to you. It was 
thus. 

Not long after we had withdrawn from his cell on our 
first visit. Probus, as was his wont when alone, sat read¬ 
ing by that dim and imperfect light which the jailer had 
provided him. He presently closed the volume and laid 
it. away. While he then sat musing, and thinking of 


208 


AU RELIAN . 


the morrow, and of the fate which then probably awaited 
him, the door of his cell slowly opened, He looked, 
expecting to see his usual visitant the jailer, but it was 
a form very different from his. The door closed, and 
the figure advanced to where Probus sat. The gown in 
which it was enveloped was then let fall, and the Prefect 
stood before the Christian. 

‘ Varus !’ said Probus. ‘ Do I see aright ? ’ 

‘ It is Varus,’ replied the Prefect. ‘ And your friend.’ 

‘ I would, now at least, be at friendship with all the 
world,’ responded Probus. 

‘ Yet,’ said Varus, ‘ your friends must be few, that 
you should be left in this place of horror, alone, to meet 
your fate.’ 

‘ I have no friend powerful enough, on earth at least, 
to cope with the omnipotence of Aurelian,’ replied Pro¬ 
bus. 

‘ Thy friends, Christian, are more, and more potent 
than thou dreamest of. As I said to thee before, even 
Aurelian esteems thee.’ 

‘ Strange, that, if he esteems me, as thou sayest, he 
should thrust me within the lions’ den, with prospect ot 
no escape but into their jaws. And can I suppose that 
his esteem is worth much to me who crowds his prisons 
with those who are nearest to me, reserving them there 
for a death the most cruel and abhorred ?’ 

‘ He may esteem thee. Probus, and not thy faith. 
’Tis so with me. I like not thy faith, but truly do I say 
it, I like thee, and would fain serve and save thee. 
Nay, ’tis thy firmness and thy zeal in the cause thou 
hast espoused that wins me. I honor those virtues. 
But, Probus in thee they are dangerous ones. Tha 


A U R E L I A iN . 


209 


same qualities in a worthier cause would make thee 
great. That which thou hast linked thyself to, Chris¬ 
tian, is a downward and a dying one. Its doom is seal¬ 
ed. The word of Aurelian is gone forth, and, before 
the Ides, the blood of every Christian in Rome shall 
flow — and not in Rome only, but throughout the em¬ 
pire. The forces are now disposing over the whole of 
this vast realm, which, at a sign from the great Head, 
shall fall upon this miserable people, and their very 
name shall vanish from the earth. It is vain to con¬ 
tend. It is but the struggling of a man with the will 
and the arm of Jove —’ 

‘ Varus !—’ Probus began. 

‘ Nay,’ said the Prefect, ‘ listen first. This faith ol 
thine, Christian, which can thus easily be destroyed, 
cannot be that divine and holy thing thou deemest it. 
So judges Porphyrius, and all of highest mark here in 
Rome, It is not to be thought of one moment as possi¬ 
ble, that what a God made known to man for truth, he 
should afterward leave defenceless, to be trodden to the 
dust, and its ministers and disciples persecuted, tor¬ 
mented, and exterminated by human force. Christian, 
thou hast been deceived — and all thy fellows are in 
the like delusion. Do thou then save both thyself and 
them. It is in thy power to stop all this effusion ol 
blood, and restore unity and peace to an empire now 
torn and bleeding in every part.’ 

‘ And how. Varus— seeing thou wouldst that I should 
hear all — how shall it be done ?’ 

‘ Embrace, Probus, the faith of Rome — the faith ol 
thy father, venerable for piety as for years— the faith 

18* VOL. II. 


210 


A U R E L I A N . 


of centuries, and of millions af our great progenitors 
and thou art safe, and all thine are safe.’ 

Probus was silent. 

‘ Aurelian bids me say,’ continued the Prefect, ‘ that 
doing this, there is not a wish of thy heart, for thyself, 
or for those who are dear to thee, but it shall be granted. 
Wealth, more than miser ever craved, office and place 
lower but little than Aurelian’s own, shall be thine —’ 

‘ Varus ! if there is within thee the least touch of hu* 
manity, cease ! Thy words have sunk into these dead 
walls as far as into me ; yet have they entered far 
enough to have wounded the soul through and through. 
Not, Varus, though to all thou hast said and promised 
thou shouldst add Rome itself and the empire, and still 
to that the subject kingdoms of the East and West, with 
their treasures, and the world itself, would I prove false 
to myself, my faith, and my God. Nor canst thou think 
me base enough for such a deed. This is no great 
virtue in me. Varus. I hold it not such ; nor may you. 
Go through the secret chambers of these prisons with 
the same rich bribe upon thy tongue, and not one so 
fallen wouldst thou find that he would hear thee through 
as I have done. Varus, thou knowest not what a 
Christian is ! Thou canst not conceive how little a thing 
life is in his regard set by the side of truth. I griev^^ 
that ever I should have been so esteemed by thee as to 
warrant the proffers thou hast made. This injures 
more and deeper than these bonds, or than all thine 
array of engines or of beasts.’ 

‘ Be not the fool and madman,’ said the Prefect, ‘ to 
cast away from thee the mercy I have brought. Except 
on the terms I have now named, I say there is hope 


A U RE LI A N 


211 


neither for thee, nor for one of this faith in Rome, how 
ever high their name or rank.’ 

‘ That can make no change in my resolve, Varus.’ 

‘ Consider, Probus, well. As by thy renunciaUt^«j 
thou couldst save thyself, I now tell thee that the lives 
of those whom thou boldest nearest, hang also upon thy 
word. Assent to what I have offered, and Piso and 
Julia live ! Reject it, and they die !’ 

Varus paused ; but Probus spoke not. He went on. 

‘ Christian, are not these dear to thee ? Demetrius 
too, and Felix ? Where are the mercies of thy boasted 
faith, if thy heart is left thus hard? Truly thou might- 
est as well have lived and died a Pagan.’ 

‘ Again I say, Varus, thou knowest not what a Chris¬ 
tian is. We put truth before life ; and if by but a word 
that should deny the truth in Christ, or any jot or tittle 
of it, I could save the life of Piso, Julia, Felix, De¬ 
metrius, nay, and all in Rome who hold this faith, my 
tongue should be torn from my mouth before that word 
should be spoken. And so wouldst thou find every 
Christian here in Rome. Why then urge me more ? 
Did Macer hear thee ? ’ 

‘ I hold thee. Probus, a wiser man than he. All Rome 
knew him mad. Cast not away thy life. Live, and to¬ 
morrow’s sun shall see thee First in Rome !’ 

‘ Varus ! why’is this urgency ? Think me not a fool 
and blind. Thou knowest, and Fronto and Aurelian 
know, that one apostate would weigh more for your bad 
cause than a thousand headless trunks ; and so with cruel 
and insulting craft you weave your snares and pile to 
Heaven your golden bribes. Begone, Varus, and say 
to Aurelian, if in truth he sent thee on thy sharnofu' 


212 


A U R E LI A N . 


errand, tnat, in the Fabrician prison, in the same dun¬ 
geon where he cast Probus the Christian, there still lives 
Probus the Roman, whe reveres what he once revered 
and loved, truth, and whom his bribes cannot turn from 
his integrity.’ 

‘ Die then, idiot, in thy integrity ! Thou hast thrown 
scorn upon one, who has power and the will to pay it 
back in a coin it may little please thee to take it in. If 
there be one torment, Galilean, sharper than another, it 
shall be thine tomorrow; and for one moment that Ma- 
cer passed upon my irons, there shall be hours for thee. 
Not till the flesh be peeled inch by inch from thy bones, 
and thy vitals look through thy ribs, and thy brain boil 
in its hot case, and each particular nerve be stretched 
till it break, shall thy life be suffered to depart. Then, 
what the tormentors shall have left, the dogs of the 
streets shall devour. Now, Christian, let us see if thy 
God, beholding thy distress, will pity and deliver thee.’ 

Saying these words, his countenance transformed by 
passion lo that of a demon, he turned and left the cell. 

Never, Fausta, I feel assured, did Aurelian commis¬ 
sion Varus with such an errand. Fallen though he be, 
he has not yet fallen to that lowest deep. Varus doubt¬ 
less hoped to prevail over Probus by his base proposals, 
and by such triumph raise his fortunes yet higher with 
Aurelian. It was a game worth playing — so he judged, 
and perhaps wisely — and worth a risk. For doubtless- 
one apostate of the rank of Probus would have been of 
more avail to them, as Probus said to him, than a thouS’ 
and slam. For nothing do the judges so weary them¬ 
selves, and exhaust thei:- powers of persuasion, as to in¬ 
duce the Christians who are brought before them to re* 


AU R E LI A N . 


213 


nounce their faith. So desirous are they of this, that 
they have caused, in many instances, those who were 
no Christians to be presented at their tribunals, w'ho 
have then, after being threatened with torture and death, 
renounced a faith which they never professed. Once 
and again has this farce been acted before the Roman 
people. Their real triumphs of this sort have as yet 
been very few; and the sensation which they produced 
was swallowed up and lost in the glory — in the eyes 
even of the strangers who are in Rome — which has 
crowned us in the steadfast courage with which our 
people have remained quietly in their homes, throughout 
all this dreadful preparation, and then, when the hour 
of trial drew nigh, and they w^ere placed at the bar of 
the judge, and were accused of their religion, confessed 
the charge, boasted of it, and then took their way to the 
prison, from which, they well knew, death only would 
deliver them. 

That, Fausta, which w'^e have long feared and looked 
for, has come to pass, and Probus, our more than friend, 
our benefactor, and almost our parent, is, by the Emperor, 
condemned to death ; not, as from the words of Varus 
it might be supposed, to the same torments as those 
to which Macer was made subject ; but to be thrown to 
the beasts in the Flavian, a death more merciful than 
that, but yet full of horror. How is it that, in the 
Roman, mercy seems dead, and the human nature, 
which he received from the gods, changed to that of the 
most savage beast ! 

Li via has been with us ; and here, with us, would she 
now gladly remain. It is impossible, she says, for as to 


214 


A U R E L I A N . 


conceive the height of the frenzy to which Aurelian is 
now wrought up against the Christians. In his impa 
tience, he can scarce restrain himself from setting his 
Legions in the neighboring camp at once to the work of 
slaughter. But he is, strange as it may seem, in this 
held back and calmed by the more bloody-minded, but 
yet more politic. Pronto. Pronto would have the work 
thoroughly accomplished ; and that it may be so, he ad¬ 
heres to a certain system of order and apparent modera¬ 
tion, from which Aurelian would willingly break away 
and at once flood the streets of Rome in a new deluge 
of blood. Livia is now miserable and sad, as she was, a 
but a few months ago, gay and happy. At the palace, 
she tells us, she hears no sounds but the harsh and gra¬ 
ting voice of Pronto, or the smooth and silvery tones of 
Varus. As soon, she says, as Aurelian shall have de¬ 
parted for the East, shall she dwell either with us, or 
fly '0 the quiet retreat of Zenobia, at Tibur. 

The day appointed for the death of Probus has arri¬ 
ved, and never did the sun shine upon a fairer one in 
Rome. It seems as if some high festival were come, 
for all Rome is afoot. Heralds parade the streets, pro¬ 
claiming the death of Probus, Pelix, and other Chris¬ 
tians, in the Plavian, at the hour of noon. At the cor¬ 
ner of every street, and at all the public places, the 
name of “ Probus the Christian, condemned to the 
beasts,” meets the eye. Long before the time of the 
sacrifice had come, the avenues leading to the theatre, 
and all the neighbc rhood of it, were crowded with the 
excited thousands of those who desired to witness the 
spectacle. There was little of beauty, wealth, fashion. 


A U R E L I A N . 


215 


or nobility in Rome that was not represented in the 
dense multitude that filled the seats of the boundless 
amphitheatre. Probus had said to me, at my last inter¬ 
view with him, ‘ Piso, you may think it a weakness in 
me, but I would that one at least, whose faith is mine, 
and whose heart beats as mine, might be with me at the 
final hour. I would, at that hour, meet one eye that 
can return the glance of friendship. It will be a source 
of strength to me, and I know not how much I may need 
it.’ I readily promised what he asked, though, as you 
may believe, Fausta, I would willingly have been spared 
the trial. So that making part of that tide pouring to¬ 
ward the centre, I found myself borne along at the ap¬ 
pointed hour to the scene of suffering and death. 

As I was about to pass beneath the arched-way which 
leads to the winding passages within, I heard myself 
saluted by a well-known voice, and, turning to the quar¬ 
ter whence it came, beheld Isaac, but without his pack, 
and in a costume so different from that which he usually 
wears, that at first I doubted the report of my eyes. But 
the sound of his voice, as he again addressed me, as¬ 
sured me it could be no other than he. 

‘ Did I not tell thee, Piso,’ said he, ‘ that, when the 
Christian was in his straits, there thou wouldst see the 
Jew, looking on, and taking his sport ? This is for 
Probus the very end I looked for. And how should it 
be otherwise ? Is he to live and prosper, who aims at 
the life of that to which God has given being and au¬ 
thority ? Shall he flourish in pride and glory who hath 
helped to pull down what God built up ? Not so, Piso. 
’Tis no wonder that the Christiana are now in this 
plight. It could be no otherwise. And in every corner 


A U R E L T A N . 


2\Q 


of this huge fabric wilt thou beheld some of my trib* 
looking on upon this sight, or helping at the sacrifice 
Yet, as thou knowest, I am not among them. There is 
no hope for Probus, Piso ? ’ 

‘ None, Isaac. All Rome could not save him.’ 

‘ Truly,’ rejoined the Jew, ‘ he is in the lion’s den. 
Yet as the prophet Daniel was delivered, so may it be 
to him. God is over all.’ 

‘ God is, indeed, over all,’ I said ; ‘ but he leaves us 
with our natural passions, affections, and reason, to work 
out our own way through the world. We are the 
better for it.’ 

‘ Doubtless,’ said Isaac. ‘ Yet at times, when we look 
not for it, and from a quarter we dream not of, deliver¬ 
ance comes. So was it to Abraham, when he thought 
that by his own hand Isaac his son must be slain. But 
why to a Christian should I speak of these ? Dost 
thou witness the sacrifice, Piso? ’ 

‘ Yes, at the earnest entreaty of Probus himself.’ 

‘ I, too, shall be there. We shall both then see what 
shall come to pass.’ 

So saying, he moved away toward the lower vaults, 
where are the cages of the beasts, and I passed on and 
ascended the flight of steps leading to that part of the 
interior where it is the custom of Aurelian to sit. The 
Emperor was not as yet arrived, but the amphitheatre, 
in every part of it, was already filled with its countless 
thousands. All were seated idly conversing, or gazing 
about as at the ordinary sports of the place. The hum 
of so many voices struck the ear like the distant roar oi 
the ocean. How few of those thousands — not one per¬ 
haps— knew for what it was that Probus and his com- 


A U R E L I A N . 


217 


pariions were now about to suffer a most cruel and ab¬ 
horred death ! They knew that their name was Chris¬ 
tian, and that Christian was of the same meaning ab 
enemy of the gods and of the empire ; but what it was 
which made the Christian so willing to die, why it was 
he was so ready to come to that place of horror and 
give up his body to the beasts—this they knew not. It 
ivus to them a riddle they could not read. And they 
sat and looked on with the same vacant unconcern, or with 
the same expectation of pleasure, as if they were to wit¬ 
ness the destruction of murderers and assassins. This 
would not have been so, had that class of the citizens of 
Rome, or any of them, been present, who, regarding us 
with favor, and hoping that somewhat might yet come of 
our religion advantageous to the world, maintain a neu¬ 
tral position. These were not there ; owing, both to 
their disinclination to witness scenes so brutalizing, and 
to apprehensions lest they should be betrayed into 
words or acts of sympathy, that might lead to their being 
confounded with the obnoxious tribe, and exposed to the 
like dangers. All, therefore, within the embrace of those 
wide-spreading walls were of one heart and one mind. 

While I sat waiting the coming of the Emperor, and 
surrounded by those whom I knew not nor had ever 
seen, one who occupied a part of the same seat, accom¬ 
panied by his wife and daughters, said to me, 

‘ ’Tis to be hoped, sir, that so terrible an example as 
this will have its effect in deterring others from joining 
this dangerous superstition, and not only that, but strike 
so wholesome a terror into those who already profess it, 
that they shall at once abandon it, and so the general 
1 9 VOL. L 


^18 


A tJ R E L I A N . 


massacre of them not be necessary ; which, indeed, I 
should be loth to witness in the streets of Rome.’ 

‘ If you knew,’ I replied, ‘ for what it is these people 
are condemned to such sufferings, you would not, 1 am 
sure, express yourself in that manner. You know, 1 
may presume, only what common report has brought to 
your ears.’ 

‘ Nothing else, I admit,’ he replied. ‘ My affairs con¬ 
fine me from morning till night. I am a secretary, sir, 
in the office of the public mint. I have no time to in¬ 
form myself of the exact truth of any thing but columns 
of figures. I am not afraid to say there is not a better 
accountant within the walls of Rome. But as for other 
things, especially as to the truth in matters of this sort, 
I know nothing, and can learn nothing. I follow on as 
he world leads.’ 

‘ I dare say,’ 1 replied, ‘ you have spoken the truth. 
And every one here present, were he to speak, would 
make very much the same declaration. So here are 
eighty thousand citizens of Rome assembled to witness 
the destruction of men, of whose crime they know noth¬ 
ing, yet rejoicing in their death as if they were murder¬ 
ers or robbers ! Were you charged with a false enu¬ 
meration of your columns, would not you hold it basest 
injustice to suffer punishment before pains were taken 
to learn the exact truth in the case ? But are you not 
acting the same unjust and cruel part—with all who 
are here — in looking on and approving the destruction 
of these men, about whose offence you know nothing 
and have taken no pains to inquire .?’ 

‘ By the gods ! ’ exclaimed his wife, who seemed the 
sharper spirit of the two, ‘ I believe we have a Christian 


>1 U R E L 1 A N. 


219 


r.ere ! But however that may be, we should be prettily 
set to work, whenever some entertainment is in prospect, 
to puzzle ourselves about the right and the wrong in the 
matter. If we are to believe you, sir, whenever a poor 
wretch is to be thrown to the beasts, before we can k 
in at the sport we must settle the question — under the 
law I suppose — whether the condemnation be just or 
not ! Ha ! ha ! Our life were in that case most light 
ana agreeable ! The Prefect himself would not have 
before him a more engaging task. Gods ! Cornelia dear, 
see what a pair of eyes ! ’ 

‘ Where, mother ? ’ 

‘ There ! in that old man’s head. They burn and 
twinkle like coals of fire. I should think he must be a 
Christian.’ 

I was not sorry that a new object had attracted the at 
tention of this lady of the secretary ; and looking wher». 
she pointed, I saw Isaac planted below us and near the 
arena. At the same moment the long peal of trumpets, 
and the shouts of the people without, gave note of the 
approach and entrance of the Emperor. In a moment 
more, with his swift step, he entered the amphitheatre, 
and strode to the place set apart for him, the whole mul¬ 
titude rising and saluting him with a burst of welcome 
that might havebe^n heard beyond the walls of Rori^e. 
The Emperor acknowledged the salutation by rising 
from his seat and lifting the crown from his head. He 
was instantly seated again, and at a sign from him the 
herald made proclamation of the entertainments which 
were to follow. He who was named as the first to 
suffer was Probus. 

When I heard his name pronounced, with the punish 


220 


AU KE LIAIM. 


ment which awaited him, my resolution to remain for 
sook me, and I turned to rush from the theatre. Bu 
my recollection of Probus’s earnest entreaties that I 
would be there, restrained me and I returned to my seat. 
I considered, that as I would attend the dying bed of a 
friend, so I was clearly bound to remain where I was, 
and wait for the last moments of this my more than Chris¬ 
tian friend ; and the circumstance that his death was 
to be shocking and harrowing to the friendly heart was 
not enough to absolve me from the heavy obligation. I 
therefore kept my place, and awaited with patience the 
event. 

I had waited not long when, from beneath that ex¬ 
tremity of the theatre where I was sitting. Probus was 
led forth and conducted to the centre of the arena, where 
was a short pillar to which it was customary to bind 
the sufferers. Probus, as he entered, seemed rather 
like one who came to witness what was there than to be 
himself the victim, so free was his step, so erect his 
form. In his face there might indeed be seen an ex¬ 
pression, that could only dwell on the countenance of 
one whose spirit was already gone beyond the earth, and 
holding converse with things unseen. There is always 
much of this in the serene, uplifted face of this remar¬ 
kable man ; but it was now there written in lines so 
bold and deep, that there could have been few in that 
vast assembly but must have been impressed by it, a? 
never before by aught human. It must have been this, 
which brought so deep a silence upon that great multi¬ 
tude—not the mere fact that an individual was about to 
be torn by lions—that is an almost daily pastime. For 
it was so, that when he first made his appearance, and 


A U R E L I A N . 


22i 


as he moved toward the centre, turned and looked round 
upon the crowded seats rising to the heavens, the people 
neither moved nor spoke, but kept their eyes fastened 
upon him as by some spell which they could not break. 

When he had reached the pillar, and he who had 
conducted him was about to bind him to it, it was plain, 
by what at that distance we could observe, that Probus 
was entreating him to desist and leave him at liberty ; 
in which he at length succeeded, for that person re¬ 
turned, leaving him alone and unbound. 0 sight of 
misery! — he who for the humblest there present would 
have performed any office of love, by which the least 
good should redound to them, left alone and defenceless, 
they looking on and scarcely pitying his cruel fate ! 

When now he had stood there not many minutes, one 
of the doors of the vivaria was suddenly thrown back, 
and bounding forth with a roar, that seemed to shake 
the walls of the theatre, a lion of huge dimensions leap¬ 
ed upon the arena. Majesty and power were inscribed 
upon his lordly limbs ; and as he stood there where he 
had first sprung, and looked round upon the multitude, 
how did his gentle eye and noble carriage, with which 
no one for a moment could associate meanness, or cruel¬ 
ty, or revenge, cast shame upon the human monsters 
assembled to behold a solitary, unarmed man torn limb 
from limb 1 When he had in this way looked upon that 
cloud of faces, he then turned and moved round the 
arena through its whole circumference, still looking up 
wards upon those who filled the seats — not till he had 
come again to the point from which he started, sc much 
as noticing him who stood, his victim, in the midst 
19 * 


VOL. II. 


222 


A U R E L I A N . 


Then — as if apparently for the first time becoming con¬ 
scious of his presence — he caught the form of Probus ; 
and moving slowly towards him, looked steadfastly up- 
upon him, receiving in return the settled gaze of the 
Christian. Standing there, still, awhile — each looking 
upon the other — he then walked round him, then ap¬ 
proached nearer, making, suddenly and for a moment, 
those motions which indicate the roused appetite ; but 
as it were in the spirit of self-rebuke, he immediately 
retreated a few paces and lay down in the sand, stretch¬ 
ing out his head toward Probus, and closing his eyes as 
if for sleep. 

The people, who had watched in silence, and with 
the interest of those who wait for their entertainment, 
were both amazed and vexed, at what now appeared to 
be the dulness and stupidity of the beast. When how¬ 
ever he moved not from his place, but seemed as if he 
were indeed about to fall into a quiet sleep, those who oc¬ 
cupied the lower seats began both to cry out to him and 
shake at him their caps, and toss about their arms in the 
hope to rouse him. But it was all in vain ; and at the 
command of the Emperor he was driven back to his den. 

Again a door of the vivaria was thrown open, and 
another of equal size, but of a more alert and rapid step, 
broke forth, and, as if delighted with his sudden liberty 
and the ample range, coursed round and round the are¬ 
na, wholly regardless both of the people and of Probus, 
intent only as it seemed upon his own amusement. 
And when at length he discovered Probus standing in 
his place, it was but to bound toward him as in frolic, 
and then wheel away in pursuit of a pleasure he es¬ 
teemed more highly than the satisfying of his hunger 


A U R E L I A N . 


223 


At this, ^he people were not a little astonished, and 
many who were near rne hesitated not to say, “ that 
there might be some design of the gods in this.” Oth¬ 
ers said plainly, but not with raised voices, “ An omen ! 
an omen !” At the same time Isaac turned and looked 
at me with an expression of countenance which I could 
not interpret. Aurelian meanwhile exhibited many 
signs of impatience ; and when it was evident the ani¬ 
mal could not be wrought up, either by the cries of the 
people, or of the keepers, to any act of violence, he too 
was taken away. But when a third had been let loose, 
and with no better effect, nay, with less — for he, when 
he had at length approached Probus, fawned upon him, 
and laid himself at his feet — the people, superstitious 
as you know beyond any others, now cried out aloud, 
“ An omen ! an omen!” and made the sign that Probus 
should be spared and removed. 

Aurelian himself seemed almost of the same mind, 
and I can hardly doubt would have ordered him to be 
released, but that Pronto at that moment approached 
him, and by a few of those words, which, coming from 
him, are received by Aurelian as messages from Hea¬ 
ven, put within him a new and different mind ; for ris¬ 
ing quickly from his seat he^ordered the keeper of the 
vivaria to be brought before him. When he appeared 
below upon the sands, Aurelian cried out to him, 

‘ Why, knave, dost thou weary out our patience thus 
— letting forth beasts already over-fed ? Do thus again, 
and thou thyself shalt be thrown to them. Art thou 
too a Christian ?’ 

‘ Great Emperor,’ replied the keeper, ‘ than those 1 
have now let loose, there are not larger nor fiercer in 


224 


A U R E L I A N . 


the imperial dens, and since the sixth hour of yesterdaji 
they have tasted nor food nor drink. Why they have 
thus put off their nature ’tis hard to guess, unless the 
general cry be taken for the truth, “ that the gods have 
touched them.” 

Aurelian was again seen to waver, when a voice from 
the benches cried out, 

‘ It is, 0 Emperor, but another Christian device I 
Forget not the voice'I’rom the temple ! The Christians, 
who claim powders over demons, bidding them go and 
come at pleasure, may well be thought capable to 
change, by the magic imputed to them, the nature of a 
beast.’ 

‘ I doubt not,’ said the Emperor, ‘ but it is so. Slave ! 
throw up now the doors of all thy vaults, and let us see 
whether both lions and tigers be not too much for this 
new necromancy. If it be the gods who interpose, they 
can shut the mouths of thousands as of one. 

At those cruel words, the doors of the vivaria were at 
once dung open, and an hundred of their fierce tenants, 
maddened both by hunger and the goads that had been 
applied, rushed forth, and in the fury with which in a 
single mass they fell upon Probus—then kneeling upon 
the sands—and burying him beneath them, no one could 
behold his fate, nor, when that dark troop separated and 
ran howling about the arena in search of other victims 
could the eye discover the least vestige of that holy 

man.-1 then fled from the theatre as one who flies 

from that which is worse than death. 

Felix was next offered up, as I have learned, and aftei 
him more than burscore of the Christians of Rome. 



A tl i; ELIAN. 


22, 


Rome continues the same scene of violence, cruelty 
unci blood. Each moment are the miserable Christians 
dragged through the streets either to the tribunals of the. 
judges, or thence, having received their doom, to the 
prisons. 

Seeing, Fausta, that the Emperor is resolved that we 
shall not be among the sufferers, and that he is also re¬ 
solved upon the total destruction of all within the walls 
of Rome, from which purpose no human power can now 
divert him, we feel ourselves no longer bound to this 
spot, and are determined to withdraw from it, either to 
Tibur or else to you. Were there any office of protec¬ 
tion or humanity, which it were in our power to perform 
toward the accused or the condemned, you may believe 
that we should remain fixed to the post of duty. But 
the fearful sweep which is making, and yet to be made, 
of every living soul in Rome, leaves nothing for us to 
do but to stand idle and horror-struck witnesses of suf¬ 
ferings and wrongs, which we can do nothing to avert or 
relieve. Portia shares our sorrows,and earnestly entreats 
us to depart, consenting herself to accompany us. 

After seeing Zenobia at Tibur, and conversing with 
her and Livia, whom I found there, we have resolved 
upon Palmyra, and already have I engaged a vessel 
bound to Berytus. A brief interval will alone be needful 
for our preparations. Portia goes with us. 

In the midst of these preparations, news is brought 
us by Milo that Aurelian, hastened by accounts of dis¬ 
turbances in the army, has suddenly started for Thrace, 


226 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


But [ see not i lat this can interfere with our movements, 

unless indeed.What can mean this sudden uproar 

in the streets ?—and now within the house itself.. 

My fears are true. 

Fausta, I am a prisoner in the hands of Fronto. I 
now write in chains, and Julia stands at my side bound 
also. I have obtained with difficulty this grace, to seal 
my letter, and bid you farewell. 


Thus were Piso and Julia at length in the grasp of 
the cruel and relentless Fronto. Aurelian’s sudden de¬ 
parture from Rome placed the whole conduct of the en¬ 
terprise he had undertaken in the hands of Varus and 
the priest, who were left by the Emperor with full pow¬ 
ers to carry on and complete the work which he had be¬ 
gun. It was his purpose however, so soon as the diffi¬ 
culties in the army should be composed, himself imme¬ 
diately to return, and remain till the task were ended — 
the great duty done. But, as many causes might con¬ 
spire to prevent this, they were clothed with sovereign 
authority to do all that the welfare of the city and the 
defence and security of religion might require. I will 
not charge Aurelian with an unnecessary absence at this 
juncture, that so he might turn over to his tools a work, 
at which his own humanity and conscience, hardened aj 
they were, revolted—or rather that they, voluntarily, an» 





A U R E L I A N . 


227 


moved only by their own superstitious and malignant 
minds might then be free to do what they might feel 
safe in believing would be an acceptable service to their 
great master. I will still believe, that, had he intended 
the destruction of Piso and Julia, he would, with that 
courage which is natural to him, have fearlessly and 
unshrinkingly done the deed himself. I will rather sup¬ 
pose that his ministers, without warrant from him, and 
prompted by their own hate alone, ventured upon that 
dark attempt, trusting, when it should have once been 
accomplished, easily to obtain the pardon of him, who, 
however he might affect or feel displeasure for a moment, 
would secretly applaud and thank them for the deed. 

However this may be, Aurelian suddenly departed 
from Rome, and Pronto and Varus filled his place ; and 
their first act of authority was the seizure of Piso and 
the Princess. At Tibur we knew nothing of these events 
till they were passed ; we caring not to hear of the daily 
horrors that were acted in the city, and feeling as secure 
of the safety of Piso and Julia as of our own. 

It was on a gloomy winter evening when they were 
borne away from their home upon the Coelian to the 
dark vaults beneath the Temple of ihe Sun, Fronto’s 
own province. But here again let Piso speak for him¬ 
self, as I find recorded in the fragment of a letter. 

^ # The darkness of the night scarce per¬ 

mitted me to see, he says, whither we were born 3, but 
when the guard stopped and required us to alight from 
the carriage in which we had been placed, I perceived 
that we were at the steps of the temple — victims there¬ 
fore in his own regions of a man, as much more savage 


22S 


A U R E L i A N . 


thari Auielian, as he than a beast of the forest. We 
were denied the happiness of being confined in the same 
place, but were thrust into separate dungeons, divided 
by walls of solid rock. Here, when wearied out by 
watching, I fell asleep. How long this lasted I cannot 
tell ; I was wakened by the withdrawing of the bolts 
of rny door. One, bearing a dim light, slowly opening 
the door, entered. Forgetting my condition I essayed 
to rise, but my heavy chains bound me to the floor. 
Soon as the noise of my motion caught the ear of the 
person who had entered, he said, 

‘ So ; all is safe. I am not thy keeper, sir Piso, but 
’tis my province to keep the keeper— that is— visit thee 
every hour to see that thou art here. Yet, by the gods ! 
if you Christians have that power of magic, which is 
commonly reported of you, I see not of what use it were 
to watch you thus. How is it with thee, most noble 
Piso V 

‘ That is of little moment; but tell me, if there is any¬ 
thing human in thee, where is the Princess Julia, and 
what is her fate V 

‘ Be not too much concerned,’ he replied. ‘ She is 
safe, I warrant you. None but Fronto deals with her.’ 

‘ Fronto !’ I could only say. 

‘ Yes, Fronto. Fear not, he is an honorable man and 
a holy priest.’ 

‘ Fronto !’ I was about to add more, but held my • 
peace ; knowing well that what I might say could avail 
nothing for us, and might be turned against us. 1 only 
asked, ‘ why there was such delay in examining and 
condemning us ?’ 

‘ That is a question truly,’ he replied ; ‘ but not sc 


A U R E L I A N . 


223 


easy to be answered. Few know the reason, that I can 
say. Bui what is there in the heart of Fronto that is 
kept from Curio ? Are thy chains easy, Piso V 

‘ I would that they might be lengthened. Here am ] 
bound to the floor without so much as the power to stand 
upright. This is useless suffering.’ 

‘ ’Twas so ordered by Fronto ; but then if there is one 
in Rome who can take a liberty with him, I know well 
who he is. So hold thou the lamp, Piso, and I will 
ease thee and, like one accustomed to the art, he soon 
struck apart the chain, and again uniting it left me room 
both to stand and move. 

‘ There,’ said he, as he took again the lamp, ‘ for one 
who hates a Christian as he does death, that’s a merciful 
deed. But I can tell thee one thing, that it will not 
ease thee long.’ 

‘ That I can believe. But why, once more, is there 
this delay V 

‘ I know not, Piso, whether I should tell thee, but as I 
doubt not Fronto would, were he here, I surely may do 
the same, for if there are two men in Rome, Piso, whose 
humors are the same and jump together, I and Fronto 
are they. There is a dispute then, nolile Piso, between 
Varus and Fronto about the lady Julia — ’ and without 
heeding my cries the wretch turned and left the vault, 
closing after him the heavy door. 

How many days, in the torture of a suspense and ig¬ 
norance worse than death, I lay here, I cannot tell. Cu¬ 
rio came as often as he said to see that all was safe, but 
there was little said by either ; he would examine my 
chain and then depart. On the night—the last night I 
20 vor. II. 


230 


A U R E L T A N . 


passed in that agony — preceding my examination by 
Varus and Fronto, Iwas disturbed from my slumbers by 
the entrance of Curio. He advanced wdth as it seemed 
to me an unusually cautious step, and I rose expecting 
some communication of an uncommon nature. But what 
was my amazement, as the light fell upon the face of him 
who bore it, to see not Curio but Isaac. His finger was 
on his lips, while in his hand he held the implements 
necessary for sawing apart my chains. 

‘ Piso ! ’ said he in a whispered tone, ‘ thou art now 
free, — I could not save Probus, but I can save thee — ^ 

horses fleet as the winds await thee and the Princess 
beyond the walls, and at the Tiber’s mouth a vessel 
takes you to Berytus. Curio lies drunk or dead, it 
matters little which, in a neighboring vault.’ And he 
set down the lamp and seized my chain. The strange 
devotion of this man moved me ; and, were it but to 
reward his love, I could almost have slipped my bonds. 
But other thoughts prevailed. 

‘ Isaac, you have risked your life and that of your 
household in this attempt ; and sorry am I that I can 
pay thee only with my thanks. I cannot fly.’ 

‘ Piso ! thou surely art not mad ? Why shouldst 
thou stay in the hands of these pagan butchers—’ 

‘ Were this, Isaac, but the private rage of Fronto, 
gladly would I go with thee — more gladly would I 
give Julia to thy care. But it is not so. It is, as thou 
knowo«t, for our faith that we are here and thus ; and 
shall we shrink from what Probus bore ? ’ 

‘ Piso, believe me — ’tis not for thy faith alone that 
thou art here, but for thy riches, and thy wife—’ 

‘ Isaac ! thou hast been deceived. Sooner would they 


A IJ R E L I A N . 


23 \ 


throw themselves into a lion’s den for sport, than brave 
the wrath of Aurelian for such a crime. Thou hast 
been deceived.’ 

‘ I have it,’ replied the Jew, ‘ from the mouth of the 
miscreant Curio, who has told me of fierce disputes, 
overheard by him, between Varus and Pronto concern¬ 
ing the lady Julia.’ 

‘ Their dispute has been, doubtless, whether she too 
should be destroyed ; for to Pronto is well known the 
constant love which Aurelian still bears her. Curio is 
not always right.’ 

‘ And is this my answer, Piso ? ’ said Isaac. ‘ And, 
if I cannot prevail with thee, shall I not still see thy 
wife ? Over her perchance—’ 

‘ No, Isaac ; it would be of no avail. Her answer 
would be the same as mine.’ 

‘ Nevertheless, Piso, I believe that what I have heard 
and surmised is so. Pronto and Varus, who have 
played with the great Aurelian as a toyman with his 
images, may carry even this.’ 

‘ Were it so, I put my trust in God, and to him com¬ 
mend myself and Julia. Por this our faith are we 
ready to bear all that man can devise or do".’ 

Seeing that further argument was vain, Isaac, with 
eyes that overflowed as any woman’s, embraced me and 
left the cell. 

On the day which followed the visit of Isaac was 1 
placed before Pronto and Varus. 

It was in the great room of the temple that the Pre¬ 
fect and the Priest awaited their victims. It was dimly 
illuminated, so that the remoter parts were los:t in thick 


232 


A U R E L I A N . 


darkness. So far as the eye could penetrate it, a ciowd 
of faces could be discerned in the gloom, of those who 
were there to witness the scene. All, whom my sight 
could separate from the darkness, were of the Roman 
priesthood, or friends of Pronto. Not that others were 
excluded — it was broad day, and the act was a public 
one, and authorized by the imperial edict — but that no 
announcement of it had been made ; and by previous 
concert the place had been filled with the priests and 
subordinate ministers of the Roman temples. I knew 
therefore that not a friendly eye or arm was there. 
Whatever it might please those cruel judges to inflict 
upon myself or Julia, — there was none to remonstrate 
or interpose. With what emotions, when I had first 
been placed before those judges, did I await the coming 
of Julia, from whom 1 had now been so long parted ! 
Fervently did I pray that the mercy of Pronto would 
first doom her, that she might be sure of at least one 
sympathising and pitying heart. 

On the right of the Prefect, upon a raised platform, 
were set the various instruments of torture and death, 
each attended by its half naked minister. 

I had not stood long, when upon the other side of the 
room the noise of the dividing crowd told me that Ju¬ 
lia was entering, and in a moment more she was stand¬ 
ing at a little distance from me, and opposite Pronto — 
I being opposite the Prefect. Our eyes met once —and 
no more. As I could have desired. Pronto first addres¬ 
sed her. 

‘ Woman ! thou standest here charged with impiety 
and denial of the gods of Rome ; in other words, with 
being a follower of Christ the Nazarene. That the 


A U R E L I A N . 


233 


charge is true, witnesses stand here ready to affirm. 
Dost thou deny the charge ? Then will we prove its 
truth.’ 

‘ I deny it not,’ responded Julia, ‘ but confess it. Wit¬ 
nesses are not needed. The Christian witnesses for 
himself.’ 

‘ Dost thou know the penalty that waits on such con¬ 
fession ?’ 

‘ I know it. but do not fear it.’ 

‘ But for thee to die so, woman, is of ill example to all 
in Rome. We would rather change thee. We would 
not have thee die the enemy of the gods, of Rome, 
and of thyself. I ask thee then to renounce thy vain 
impiety ! ’ 

Julia answered not. 

‘I require thee, Christian, to renounce Christ!’ 

Still Julia made no reply. 

‘ Know you not, woman, I have power to force from 
thee that, which thou wilt not say willingly ?’ 

‘ Thou hast no such power. Priest. Thou wert else 
God.’ 

‘ Thy tender frame cannot endure the torture of those 
engines. It were better spared such suffering.’ 

‘ I would gladly be spared that suffering,’ said Julia ; 
‘ but not at the expense of truth.’ 

‘ Think not that I will relent. Those irons shall 
rack and rend thee in every bone and joint, except thou 
dost renounce that foul impostor, whose curse now lies 
heavy upon Rome and the world.’ 

‘ Weary me not, Priest, with vain importunity. I 
om a Christian, and a Christian will I die.’ 
qo# 


VOL. II. 


234 


A U R E L I A N. 


‘ Prepare then the rack !’ cried Pronto, his passions 
ising ; ‘ that is the medicine for obstinacy such as this 
Now bind her to it.’ 

Hearing that, I wildly exclaimed, 

‘ Priest! thou dar’st not do it for thy life ! Touch 
but the hair of her head, and thy life shall answer it. 
Aurelian’s word is pledged, and thou dar’st not break it.’ 

‘ Aurelian is far enough from here,’ replied the priest, 
‘ But were he where I am, thou wouldst see the same 
game. I am Aurelian now.’ 

‘ Is this then thy commission, had from Aurelian ?’ , 

‘ That matters not, young Piso. ’Tis enough for thee 
to know that Pronto rules in Rome. No more ! Hold 
now thy peace ! Where an Empress has sued in vain, 
there is no room for words from thee. Slaves ! bind 
her, I say! To the rack with her !’ 

At that I sprang madly forward, thinking only of her 
rescue from those murderous fangs, but was at the same 
instant drawn violently back both by my chains and the 
arms of those who guarded me. The tormentors de¬ 
scended from their engines to fulfil the commands of 
Pronto, and, laying hold of Julia, bore her, without an 
opposing word, or look, or motion, toward their instru¬ 
ments of death. And they were already binding her 
limbs to the accursed wheels, while Pronto and Varub 
both drew nigh to gloat over her agonies, when a distant 
sound, as of the ocean lashed by winds, broke upon the 
ears of all within that hell. Even the tormentors paus¬ 
ed in their work, and looked at each other and at 
Pronto, as if asking what it should mean. 

The silence of death fell upon the crowd — every eai 
strained to catch the still growing sound and interpret it 


A U R E L I A N. 


235 


‘ ’Tis but the winter wind ! ’ cried Fronto. ‘ On, 
cowards, with your work !’ 

But, ere the words had left his lips, or those demons 
could wind the wheels of their engine, the appalling 
tumult of a multitude rushing toward the temple became 
too fearfully distinct for even Fronto or Varus to pre¬ 
tend to doubt its meaning. But why it was, or for what, 
none could guess ; only upon the terror-struck forms of 
both the Prefect and the Priest might be read apprehen¬ 
sions of hostility that from some quarter was aiming at 
themselves. Fronto’s voice was again heard : 

‘ Bar the great doors of the temple ! let not the work 
of the gods be profanely violated.’ 

But the words were too late ; for, while he was yet 
speaking, 0 Fausta, how shall I paint my agony of joy ! 
there was heard from the street and from the porch of 
the temple itself the shouts of as it were ten thousand 
voices, 

“ Tacitus is Emperor !” “ Long live the good 

Tacitus !” 

Freedom and life were in those cries. The crowds 
from the streets swept in at the doors like an advancing 
torrent. Varus and Fronto, followed by their myrmi¬ 
dons, vanished through secret doors in the walls behind 
them, and among the first to greet me and strike the 
chains from my limbs were Isaac and Demetrius. 

‘ And where is the lady Julia ?’ cried Isaac. 

‘ There !’ 

He flew to the platform, and, turning back the wheels, 
Julia was once more in my arms. 

‘ And now,’ I cried, ‘what means it all ? Am I awake 
or do I dream ? ’ 


236 


A U R E L I A N. 


‘ You are awake,’ replied Demetrius. ‘ The tyrant 
is dead ! and the seriate and people all cry out loi 
Tacitus.’ 

I now looked about me. The mob of priests was fled, 
and around me I beheld a thousand well-known faces 
of those who already had been released from their dun¬ 
geons. Christians, and the friends of Christians, now 
filled the temple. 

‘ We were led hither,’ continued Demetrius, ‘ by your 
fast friend and the friend I believe of all, Isaac. None 
but he, and those to whom he gave the tidings, knew 
where the place of your confinement was ; nor was the 
day of your trial publicly proclaimed, although we found 
the temple open. But for him we should have been, I 
fear, too late. But no sooner was the news of Aurel- 
ian’s assassination spread through the city, than Isaac 
roused your friends and led the way.’ 

As Demetrius ceased, the name of “ Tacitus Empe¬ 
ror,” resounded again throughout the temple, and the 
crowds then making for the streets, about which they 
careered mad with joy, we were at liberty to depart ; 
and accompanied by Isaac and Demetrius, were soon 
beneath our own roof upon the Ccelian. 

With what joy then, in our accustomed place of pray¬ 
er, did we pour forth our thanksgivings to the Overrul¬ 
ing Providence, who had not only rescued ourselves 
from the very jaws Df death, but had wrought out this 
great deliverance of his whole people ! Never before, 
Fausta, was Christianity in such peril; never was there 
a man, who, like Aurelian, united to a native cruelty 
that could behold the shedding of blood with the same 
indifference as the flowing of water, a zeal for the gods 


A U R E L I A N . 


2:i7 

and a love of country that amounted quite to a super¬ 
stitious madness. Had not death interposed—judging 
as man — no power could have stayed that arm that 
was sweeping us from the face of the earth. 

The prisons have all been thrown open, and their 
multitudes again returned to their homes. The streets 
and squares of the capital resound with the joyful ac¬ 
clamations of the people. Our churches are once more 
unbarred, and with the voice of music and of prayer, 
our people testify before Heaven their gratitude for this 
infinite mercy. 

The suddenness of this transition, from utter hope¬ 
lessness and blank despair to this fulness of peace, and 
these transports of joy, is almost too much for the frame 
to bear. Tears and smiles are upon every face. We 
Icnow not whether to weep or laugh ; and many, as if 
their reason were gone, both laugh and cry, utter pray¬ 
ers and jests in the same breath. 

Soon as we found ourselves quietly in possession a- 
gain of our own home, surrounded by our own house¬ 
hold, Portia sitting with us and sharing our felicit)>the 
same feeling impelled us at once to seek Livia and Ze- 
nobia. The Empress was, as we had already learned, 
at Tibur, whither she had but this morning fled, upon 
finding all interference of no avail, hoping — but how 
vainly — that possibly her mother, than whose name in 
Rome none was greater, save Aurelian’s—might pre¬ 
vail, where the words had fallen but upon deaf ears and 
stony hearts. Our chariot bore us quickly beyond the 
walls, and toward the palace of the Queen. As we 
reached the entrance, Zenobia at the same moment, ac 


238 


A U R E L I A N . 


3onipanied by Livia, Nicomachus, and her usaal train, 
was mounting her horse for Rome. Our meeting I need 
not describe. That day and evening were consecrated 
to love and friendship ; and many days did we pass 
there in the midst of satisfactions of double worth, I 
suppose, from the brief interval which separated them 
from the agonies which but so lately we had endured. 

All that we have as yet learned of Aurelian is this, 
that he has met the fate that has waited upon so many 
of the masters of the world. His own soldiers have re¬ 
venged themselves upon him. Going forth, as it is re¬ 
ported, to quell a sudden disturbance in the camp, he 
was set upon by a band of desperate men —made so by 
threats of punishment which he ever keeps—and fell 
pierced by a hundred swords. When more exact ac¬ 
counts arrive, you shall hear again. 

Tacitus, who has long been the idol of the Senate, 
and of the best part of the people of Rome, famed, as 
you know, for his wisdom and his mild virtues, distin¬ 
guished too for his immense wealth and the elegance of 
his tastes, was at once, on the news of Aurelian’s death, 
proclaimed Emperor; not so much, however, by any 
formal act of the Senate, as by the unanimous will of all 
— senators and people. For, in order that the chance 
of peace may be the greater, the Senate, before any for¬ 
mal pnd public decree shall be passed, will wait the 
pleasure of the army. But, in the meantime, he is as 
truly Emperor as was Aurelian — and was, indeed, at 
the first moment the news of the assassination arrived 
His opinions concerning the Christians also, being well 
known, the proclamation of his name as Augustus, was 
at the same time one of safety and deliverance to our 


A U R E L I A N. 


239 


whole community. No name in Rome coul(i have 
struck such terror into the hearts of Varus and Pronto, 
as that of Tacitus — “ Tacitus Emperor !” 

After our happy sojourn at Tibur, and we had once 
more regained our home upon the Coelian, we were not 
long, as you may believe, in seeking the street Janus, 
and the dwelling of Isaac. He was happily within, and 
greeted us with heartiest welcome. 

‘ Welcome, most noble Piso,’ he cried, ‘ to the street 
Janus ! ’ 

‘ And,’ I added, ‘ to the house of a poverty-pinched 
Jew ! This resembles it indeed ! ’ 

‘ Ah ! are you there, Piso ? Well, well, if I have 
seemed poor, thou knowest why it has been, and for 
what. Welcome too. Princess ! enter, I pray you, and 
when you shall be seated I shall at once show you whai: 
you have come to see, 1 doubt not — my assortment of 
diamonds. Ah ! the news of your arrival has spread, 
and they are before me — here, Piso, is the woman ot 
the desert, and the young Ishmael, and here, lady, are 
two dark-eyed nymphs of Ecbatana. Children, this is 
the beautiful Princess of Palmyra, whose name you 
have heard more than once.’ 

It was a pretty little circle, Fausta, as the eye neeti 
behold ; and gathered together here by how strange cir¬ 
cumstances ! The very sun of peace and joy seemed 
breaking from the countenance of Isaac. ‘ He caressed 
first one and then another, nor did he know how to leave 
off kissing and praising them. 

When we had thus sat, and made ourselves known 
all around to each other, Julia said to Isaac, ‘ that she 
should hope often to see him and them in the same 


240 


A U R E L I A IN . 


way ; but however often it might be, and at whatever 
other times, she begged, that annual!y, on the Ides ol 
January, she with Piso might be admitted to his house 
and board, to keep with them all a feast of grateful re¬ 
collection. Whatever it is that makes the present hour 
so happy to us all, we owe, Isaac, to you.' 

‘Lady ! to the providence of the God of Abraham I' 

‘ In you, Isaac, I behold his providence.’ 

‘ Lady, it shall be as you say — on the Ides of Janu¬ 
ary, will we, as the years go round, call up to our minds 
these dark and bloody times, and give thanks for -the 
great redemption. Were Probus but with you, and to 
be with you, Piso, your cup were full. And he had 
been here, but for the voice of one, who, just as the third 
lion had been uncaged, fixed again the w^avering mind 
of Aurelian, w^ho then, madman-like, set on him that 
forest-full of beasts. At that moment, I found it, Piso, 
discreetest to depart.’ 

‘ And was your hand in that too, Isaac ? Were those 
lions of your training ? and that knave’s lies of your 
telling ?’ 

‘ Verily thou mayest say so.’ 

‘ But was that the part of a Jew ?’ 

‘ No,’ said Julia, ‘ it was only the part of Isaac.’ 

‘ Probus,’ said Isaac, ‘ was the friend of Piso and Julia, 
and therefore he w^as mine. If now you ask how I love 
you so, I can only say, I do not know. We are riddles 
to ourselves. When I first saw thee, Piso, I fancied 
thee, and the fancy hath held till now. Now, where love 
is, there is power—high as heaven, deep as hell. Where 
there is the will, the arm is strong and the wits clear. 
Mountains of dlffrultv and seas of d.anger sink ir'o 


A UR E L I A N . 


241 


mole-hills and shallow pools. Besides, Piso, there is no 
virtue in Rome but gold will buy it, and, as thou know- 
est, in that I am not wanting. Any slave like Curio, or 
he of the Flavian, may be had for a basket-full of oboli 
With these two clues, thou canst thread the labyrinth.’ 

Though our affairs, Fausta, now put on so smiling a 
face, we do not relinquish the thought of visiting you ; 
and with the earliest relenting of the winter, so that a 
Mediterranean voyage will be both safe and pleasant, 
shall we turn our steps toward Palmyra. 

Demetrius greatly misses his brother. But what he 
has lost, you have gained. 

What at this moment is the great wonder in Rome is 
this—a letter has come from the Legions in Thrace in 
terms most dutiful and respectful toward the'Senate, de¬ 
ploring the death of Aurelian, and desiring that they will 
place him in the number of the gods, and appoint his 
successor. This is all that was wanted to confirm us 
in our peace. Now we may indeed hail Tacitus as 
Augustus and Emperor. Farewell. 


Piso has mentioned with brevity the death of Aureli¬ 
an, and the manner of it as first received at Rome. I 
will here add to it the account which soon became current 
in the capital, and which to this time remains withou 
contradiction. 

21 


VOL. 11. 


AURELIAN 




Already has the name of Menestheus occurred in 
these memoirs. He was one of the secretaries of the 
Emperor, always near him and much in his confidence. 
This seemed strange to those who knew both, for Me¬ 
nestheus did not possess those qualities which Aurelian 
esteemed. He was selfish, covetous, and fawning ; his 
spirit and manner those of a slave to such as were above 
him—those of a tyrant to such as were below him. His 
affection for the Emperor, of which he made great dis¬ 
play, was only for what it would bring to him ; and his 
fidelity to his duties which was exemplary, grew out of 
no principle of integrity, but was merely a part of that 
self-seeking policy that was the rule of his life. His 
office put him in the way to amass riches, and for that 
reason there was not one perhaps of all the servants of 
the Emperor who performed with more exactness the 
affairs entrusted to him. He had many times incurred 
the displeasure of Aurelian, and his just rebuke for acts 
of rapacity and extortion, by which, never the empire, 
but his own fortune was profited ; but, so deep and ra¬ 
ging was his thirst of gold, that it had no other effect 
than to restrain for a season a passion which was des¬ 
tined, in its further indulgence, to destroy both master 
and servant. 

Aurelian had scarcely arrived at the camp without 
the walls of Byzantium, and was engaged in the final 
arrangements of the army previous to the departure for 
Syria—oppressed and often irritated by the variety and 
weight of the duties which claimed his care — when, 
about the hour of noon, as he was sitting in his tent, he 
was informed, “ that one from Rome with pressing 
business craved to be heard of the Emperor.” 


A U R E L I A N . 


24: 


He was ordered to approach. 

‘ And why,’ said Aurelian, as the stranger entered, 
have you sped in such haste from Rome to seek me ? 

‘ Great Caesar, I have come for justice !’ 

‘ Is not justice well administered in the courts of 
Rome, that thou must pursue me here, even to the gates 
of Byzantium ? ’ 

‘ None can complain,’ replied the Roman, ‘ that justice 
hath been withheld from the humblest since the reign 
of Aurelian — ’ 

‘ How then,’ interrupted Aurelian, ‘ how is it that 
thou comest hither ? Quick ! let us know thy matter ?’ 

‘ To have held back,’ the man replied, ‘ till the return 
of the army from its present expedition, and the law 
could be enforced, were to me more than ruin.’ 

‘ What, knave, has the army to do with thee, or thou 
witn 11 ? Thy matter, quick, I say.’ 

‘ Great Caesar,’ rejoined the other, ‘ I am the builder 
of this tent. And from my workshops came all these 
various furnishings, of the true and full value of all of 
which I have been defrauded — ’ 

‘ By whom ?’ 

‘ By one near the Emperor, Menestheus the noble 
secretary.’ 

‘ Menestheus ! Make out the case, and, by the great 
god of Light, he shall answer it. Be it but a farthing 
he hath wronged thee of, and he shall answer it. Me¬ 
nestheus ?’ 

‘ Yes, great Emperor, Menestheus. It was thus. 
When the work he spoke for was done and fairly de- 
ivered to his hands, agreeing to the value of an obolus 
and the measure of a hair, with the strict commands he 


244 


A TJ R E L I A N . 


gave, what does he when he sees it, but fall into a rage 
and swear that ’tis not so — that the stuff is poor, the 
fashion mean and beggarly, the art slight and imperfect, 
and that the half of what I charged, which was five 
hundred aurelians, was all that I should have, with 
which, if I were not content and lisped but a syllable of 
blame, a dungeon for my home were the least I might 
expect; and if my knavery reached the ear of Aurelian, 
from which, if I hearkened to him, it should be his care 
to keep it, my life were of less value than a fly’s. Know¬ 
ing well the power of the man, I took the sum he prof¬ 
fered, hoping to make such composition with my credit¬ 
ors, that I might still pursue my trade, for, 0 Emperor, 
this was my first work, and being young and just ven¬ 
turing forth, I was dependent upon others. But, with 
the half price I was allowed to charge, and was paid, I 
cannot reimburse them. My name is gone and I am 
ruined.’ 

‘ The half of five hundred — say you — was that the 
sum, and all the sum he paid you ?’ 

‘ It was. And there are here with me those that will 
attest it.’ 

‘ It needs not ; for I myself know that from the 
treasury five hundred aurelians were drawn, and said, 
by him, for this work — which well suits me — to have 
been duly paid. Let but this be proved, and his life is 
the least that it shall cost him. But it must be well 
proved. Let us now have thy witnesses.’ 

Menestheus at this point, ignorant of the charge then 
making against him, entered the tent. Appalled by the 
apparition of the injured man, and grasping at a glance 
the truth, all power of concealment was gone, conscious 


A D R E L I A N . 


246 


g'uilt was written in the color and in every line and fea¬ 
ture of the face. 

‘ Menestheus ! ’ said Aurelian, ‘ knowest thou this 
man V 

‘ He is Virro, an artisan of Rome replied the trem¬ 
bling slave. 

‘ And what think you makes him here ?’ 

The Secretary was silent. 

‘ He has come, Menestheus, well stored with proofs, 
beside those which I can furnish, of thy guilt. Shall 
the witnesses be heard ? Here they stand.’ 

Menestheus replied not. The .very faculty of speech 
had left the miserable man. 

‘ How is it,’ then said Aurelian in his fiercest tones, 
‘ how is it that again, for these paltry gains, already 
rolling in wealth — thou wilt defile thy own soul, and 
bring public shame upon me too, and Rome ! Away to 
thy tent! and pul in order thine own affairs and mine. 
Thou hast lived too long. Soldiers, let him be strongly 
guarded.— Let Virro now receive his just dues. Men 
call me cruel, and well I fear they may ; but unjust, ra¬ 
pacious, never, as I believe. Whom have I wronged, 
whom oppressed ? The poor of Rome, at least, cannot 
complain of Aurelian. Is it not so, sirrah ?’ 

‘ Rome,’ he replied, ‘ rejoices in the reign of Aurel¬ 
ian. His love of justice and of the gods, give him a 
place in every heart.’ 

Whether Aurelian would have carried into execution 
the inreat, which in a moment of passion he had pas¬ 
sionately uttered, none can tell. All that can be said i? 
this, that he rarely threatened bui he kept his word 
21 # 


VOL. I’. 


246 


A U R E L 1 A N . 


This the secretary knew, and knew therefore, that an* 
other day he might never see. His cunning and his wit 
now stood him in good stead. * A doomed man—he was 
a desperate man, and no act then seemed to him a 
crime, by which his doom might be averted. Retiring 
to his tent to fulfil the commands of the Emperor, he 
was there left alone, the tent being guarded without ; 
and then as his brain labored in the invention of souxe 
device, by which he might yet escape the impending 
death, and save a life which — his good name being ut¬ 
terly blasted and gone, could have been but a prolonged 
shame — he conceived, and hatched a plan, in its inge¬ 
nuity, its wickedness, and atrocious baseness, of a piece 
with his whole character and life. In the handwriting 
of the Emperor, which he could perfectly imitate, he 
drew up a list of some of the chief officers of the army 
— by him condemned to death on the following day. 
This paper, as he was at about the eleventh hour led 
guarded to his place of imprisonment, he dropt at the 
tent door of one whose name was on it. 

It fell into the intended hands ; and soon as the 
friendly night had come the bloody scroll was borne 
from tent to tent, stirring up to vengeance the designa¬ 
ted victims. No suspicion of fraud ever crossed their 
minds ; but amazed at a thirst of blood so insatiable, 
and which, without cause assigned, could deliver over 
to the axe his best and most trusted friends, Cams, Pro- 
ous, Mucapor — they doubted whether in truth his rea¬ 
son were not gone, and deemed it no crime, but their 
highest duty, to save themselves by the sacrifice of one 
who was no longer to be held a man. 


A U R ELIAN- 


247 


After .the noon of this day the army had made a short 
out quick march to Heraclea. Aurelian — the tents be¬ 
ing pitched — the watch set — the soldiers, weary with 
their march, asleep—himself tired with the day’s duty— 
sat with folded arms, having just ungirded and thrown 
from him his sword. His last attendant was then dis¬ 
missed, who, passing from the tent door, encountered the 
conspirators as they rushed in, and was by them hewn 
to the ground. Aurelian, at that sound, sprang to his 
feet. But alone, with the swords of twenty of his bravest 
generals at his breast — and what could he do ? One 
fell at the first sweep of his arm ; but, ere he could re¬ 
cover himself— the twenty seemed to have sheathed 
their weapons in his body. Still he fought, but not a 
word did he utter till the dagger of Mucapor, raised 
aloft, was plunged into his breast, with the words, 

‘ This Aurelia sends !’ 

‘ Mucapor ! ’ he then exclaimed as he sank to the 
ground, ‘ canst thou stab Aurelian ? ’ Then turning 
toward the others, who stood looking upon their work, 
he said, ‘ Why, soldiers and friends, is this ? Hold 
Mucapor, leave in thy sword, lest life go too quick ; 
I would speak a word—’ and he seized the wrist of Mu¬ 
capor and held it even then with an iron grasp. He 
then added, ‘ Romans ! you have been deceived ! You 
are all my friends, and have ever been. Never more 
than now— ’ His voice fell. 

Probus then reaching forward, cried out, unfolding a* 
the same moment the bloody list, 

‘ See here, tyrant! are these thy friends ? ’ 

The eyes of Aurelian, waking up at those words with 
all the intentness of life, sought the fatal vscroll and 


848 


A U R E L r A N . 


sharply scanned it — then closing again, he at the same 
moment drew out the sword of Mucapor, saying as he 
did so, 

‘’Tis the hand of Menestheus — not mine. You 
have been deceived.’ With that he fell backwards and 
expired. 

Those miserable men then looking upon one another 
—the truth flashed upon them ; and they knew that to 
save the life of that mean and abject spirit they there 
stood together murderers of the benefactor of many of 
them — the friend of all — of a General and Emperor 
whom, with all his faults, Rome would mourn as one 
who had crowned with a new glory her Seven Hills. 
How did they then accuse themselves for their unrea¬ 
sonable haste— their blind credulity! How did they 
bewail the cruel blows which had thus deprived them of 
one, whom they greatly feared indeed, but whom also 
they greatly loved ! above all, one whom, as their mas¬ 
ter in that art which in every age has claimed the admi¬ 
ration of the world, they looked up to as a very god ! 
Some reproached themselves ; some, others ; some 
threw themselves upon the body of Aurelian in the 
wildness of their remorse and grief; and all swore ven¬ 
geance upon the miscreant who had betrayed them. 

Thus perished the great Aurelian—for great he truly 
was, as the world has ever estimated greatness. When 
the news of his assassination reached Rome, the first 
sensation was that of escape, relief, deliverance ; with 
the Christians, and all who favored them, though not of 
their faith, it was undissembled joy. The streets pre¬ 
sented the appearances which accompany an occasion of 
general rejoicing. Life seemed all at once more se- 


A U R E L I A N . 


249 


ture. Another bloody tyrant was dead, by the violence 
which he had meted out to so many others, and they 
were glad. But with another part of the Roman people 
it was far otherwise. They lamented him as the great¬ 
est sd.dier Rome had known since Caesar ; as the re¬ 
storer jf the empire ; as the stern but needful reformer 
of a corrupt and degenerate age ; as one who to the ar¬ 
my had been more than another Vespasian ; who, as a 
prince, if sometimes severe, was always just, generous, 
and magnanimous. These were they, who, caring more 
for the dead than for the living, will remember concern¬ 
ing them only that which is good. They recounted his 
virtues and his claims to admiration — which were un¬ 
questionable and great—and forgot, as if they had never 
been, his deeds of cruelly, and the wide and wanton 
slaughter of thousands and hundreds of thousands, which 
will ever stamp him as one destitute of humanity, and 
whose almost only title to the name of man was, that 
he was in the shape of one. For how can the posses¬ 
sion of a few of those captivating qualities, which so 
commonly accompany the possession of great power, 
atone for the rivers of blood which flowed wherever he 
wound his way ? 

I have now ended what I proposed to myself. I have 
arranged and connected some of the letters of Lucius 
Manlius Piso, having selected chiefly those which related 
to the affairs of the Christians and their sufferings dur¬ 
ing the last days of Aurelian’s reign. Those days were 
happily few. And when they were passed, I deemed 
that never again, so fast did the world appear to grow 
wiser and better could the same horrors be repeated 


5f50 


AU RE LI A N. 


But it was not so ; and under Diocletian I beheld that 
work in a manner perfected, which Aurelian did but be 
gin. I have outlived the horrors of those times, and at 
length^ under the powerful protection of the great Con¬ 
stantine. behold this much-persecuted faith secure. In 
this I sincerely rejoice, for it is Christianity alone, of all 
the religions of the world, to which may be safely in¬ 
trusted the destinies of mankind. 



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